Hope Begins in the Dark
by rynogeny
Summary: Begins immediately after the S9 finale. Brennan and the team will always find a way to come through for Booth, even without remains to examine. Complete in four parts to be posted over the next few days. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A thousand thanks to Some1tookmyname, Natesmama, Frankie and Maracev, who either beta'd this puppy, or answered endless questions about law, guns, identical twins' skeletons, and prisoner's underwear. (My mind follows convoluted paths when writing, and they get the brunt of it.)

Title:_ "Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come._ - Anne Lamott

* * *

_"What do you know about your husband's plans to kill three Federal agents?"_

_"Why did you return to the house?" _

_"How long has Agent Booth been stockpiling C-4? How did he access it? " _

_"How long has he been planning this assault?"_

_"Was he planning a bigger attack on someone else?" _

_"Did you assist him in his plans?" _

By Brennan's estimation, and she was nearly always right about such things, the interrogation had been going on for two hours. Neither of the men firing questions at her were from the DC field office, and it had become clear almost immediately that they weren't interested in the truth. So she'd stopped offering it to them.

But she was paying close attention to every question, in hopes that they would slip up and reveal something about how far the conspiracy had spread.

Focusing so intently on the questions served another purpose, as well: it kept her terror for Booth at bay. The doctor's vague 'he's out of danger' had been so lacking in detail and actual content, she had no idea of her husband's true condition. What were the risks of further complications? Could he make a complete recovery? What were-

Aware of the spike in her heartbeat, she sharply shut down the speculation and returned her focus to the agents. She could do nothing for Booth's physical state at the moment.

The relentless battering went on: what did she know? why did Booth do what he did? Who was he working for?

The men didn't know Booth, and they didn't know her. As best she could tell, they couldn't distinguish between 'forensic anthropologist' and 'lab tech' and normally, she'd have taken a great deal of pleasure in setting them straight. But not today. Today, her focus was on trying to read between the lines of the questions, in the hope that they'd give something away. Not for the first time, she wished for Sweets.

Another hour went by, and it was clear even to her that their frustration with her silence was increasing.

"Dr. Brennan, your silence is not helping your husband. And if we find evidence that you were in on his plot, we'll arrest you as well. And then what will happen to your little girl?"

She thought about pointing out, again, that Booth hadn't been the one plotting, but instead, was struck by the true meaning of the question. The point of the interrogation was less to find out what she knew, and more about intimidating her. Threatening her.

She didn't react, simply tucked the fear of being separated from Christine in with the fear for Booth she'd already put aside. They weren't interested in arresting her, not really. The more people they charged with false crimes, the harder it would be to keep it all straight. And her celebrity status as a well-known author would only complicate that. The news media was currently chasing the story being fed to them by the conspirators, but they were notoriously fickle, particularly where celebrities were concerned.

The other agent repeated the threat, asking if she understood. She nodded, would give them that. The irony that she had, in fact, killed one of the men didn't escape her, but since the truth wasn't a factor here - at least not for the men across from her - she wouldn't think about that now. When Booth was free, and they were together, they could talk about those horrifying moments of fear and death in the their home, about what it meant. But not today.

There was a knock at the door, and the men exchanged a look before one of them stepped over to open it. She heard a quiet conversation, and then a firm voice, not unfamiliar, say, "Dr. Brennan is entitled to counsel."

She turned and saw David Barron standing there next to a deputy escort. Caroline Julian's ex-husband was one of the best defense attorneys in the city, and having seen the two of them together, both in and out of the courtroom, Brennan could well imagine the conversation that had resulted in his standing in the door of her interrogation room.

Actually, she couldn't quite figure that last part out, given the usual protocols, but since nothing about the current situation was normal, why would this be?

The agent she'd decided was in charge turned to her. "You didn't request an attorney."

No, she hadn't. In part because - what would be the point? and in part because she didn't think she absolutely had to have one. She wasn't going to be deceived into answering their questions. But if Barron was there, she'd use him. "I didn't believe it would do any good." Let them puzzle over that.

"This man is your attorney?"

"Yes." Apparently.

Barron took the seat next to her, and, notepad in front of him, looked at the men. "Now on what grounds are you gentlemen holding my client?" His tone was pleasant, and if Brennan hadn't seen how fierce he could be in court, indeed, hadn't been cross-examined by him on more than one occasion, she might have been fooled.

Thirty minutes later, she was walking out of the interrogation room. She'd not been answering the questions prior to a defense attorney sitting next to her. It hadn't taken long for the agents to realize that extending the exercise once she was, was pointless.

"I'll give you a ride back to the hospital, where your car is," he said as they waited for her personal effects to be returned to her.

Aware that anyone could be listening to them, Brennan merely nodded and focused on powering up her phone as they headed toward the parking garage. There were calls and texts from Caroline, Angela, Cam, and her father, but none from unknown numbers. None from the hospital. The tension in her muscles relaxed a little at that realization.

Settling into Barron's old SUV, Brennan looked over at him. "Booth needs an attorney more than I do."

He gave her a sideways look. "Are you retaining me?"

"I didn't exactly hire you for what you did for me back there," she observed. "But yes." She didn't intend for there to be a trial - she was going to clear Booth - but he still needed an attorney. "How much do you know about what we've discovered?"

"As much as Caroline thought I needed to know," he said grimly. "Conspiracy, set up, Agent Booth arrested on false charge."

"Will I be able to see him?"

"Probably not until he's moved to the jail infirmary. They don't have the resources to care for a patient recovering from the kind of surgery he's just had at the jail, so he'll remain at the hospital until he's a ready to be moved. But that makes them twitchy about visitors."

Desperation twisted inside her. She needed to see him, damn it.

"As his attorney, I'll be able to see him. And his doctors will give you progress reports on his recovery."

B&B

With a promise to call her as soon as he'd been allowed to see Booth, Barron dropped her at her car and went to park.

Brennan stared at the building, How could he be in there, just on the other side of that space and bricks, and she wasn't allowed to touch him? To see for herself how severe his injuries were? It was wrong, and she was tempted to tell them so. But, no. She was nothing if not practical, and trying to find a way to see him would not only risk making the situation worse, it was a waste of time. And Brennan made a point of not wasting time. Her phone buzzed as she settled into her car, the text from Angela brief and to the point: "where are you?"

Before she could answer, her attention was caught by something in the floorboard of the passenger side. Habit had her slipping her hands into gloves - she kept spares everywhere - before she picked it up. It was part of a shirt she'd used to staunch the blood pouring from Booth in the moments prior to the EMTs' arrival, though she had no memory of still having it in her hands when she'd gotten into the car. She frowned, turning it over. She didn't recognize the material. Closing her eyes, she reviewed those terrifying moments when she'd realized how gravely injured he was. In the smoke and chaos of their destroyed home, she'd reached for the first piece of cloth she could find, stopping the blood loss her only priority.

Brennan stared down at part of the shirt the last Delta Force agent had been wearing. Not all of the blood on it would be Booth's.

Stuffing it into an evidence bag, she responded to Angela's text: "On my way to the lab."

B&B

Out of habit more than anything else, Brennan went first to her office. It was late, but she could hear the voices of the team somewhere, a quiet, reassuring murmur. Still, she stood for a long moment in the shadows. Booth had once called the Jeffersonian her house, her place of reason. As usual, he'd been right. The lab had been her oasis, her place to step back from turmoil and confusion and make sense of the senseless.

Before. Tonight, there was none of that.

She found the team in the upstairs lounge - Angela, Hodgins, Cam, Sweets, and Caroline. They were oddly quiet she thought, for a group of people who were seldom silent when together. Sweets was pacing, while Hodgins sat with his head in his hands. Next to him, Angela leaned back on the couch, Michael Vincent asleep next to her, his head in her lap. Caroline and Cam, sitting at the table, were staring down at their hands.

Sweets saw her first. "Dr. Brennan." He stopped, and seemed to struggle for words. "They let you go."

Angela eased out from under the little boy's head, and came to hug her. "We were so worried."

Brennan turned to Caroline. "Thanks to Ms. Julian, they elected not to continue the interrogation."

"He's annoying when you're married to him, but he's still the best there is." She gave Brennan a sharp look. "But you still wouldn't be here if they'd made up charges against you, too."

Brennan filled them in on the interrogation and then handed Hodgins the evidence bag. "We should be able to match DNA from that to one of Foster's killers. It still won't prove they're not FBI-"

"-but it will be hard to explain why he was in both places," Cam said. "I'm still running the agents database, but it's very slow going."

Sweets cleared his throat. "The official record of Foster's death says he wasn't murdered."

"I still have my original report, and the evidence which supports it is secured."

"You admit to having falsified a death report, and you might really need David's services, chere."

For years, her career had been her greatest concern, and now, it didn't even register on the list. "I'll say I went back and re-examined it."

"Perhaps telling the truth will be an option at some point," Cam said. "That you falsified the data out of fear of exactly what happened."

Brennan shrugged. "Booth's priority will be finding out who is behind the corruption. Mine is on clearing him."

"We need to get him out of there," Angela said. "I took one of my most powerful servers off the network and have it running the decryption program, but it's very complicated. It won't be fast - we'll be lucky if it gives us one piece of usable data every other day."

Sweets frowned. "If they're familiar with your setup, won't they know it's gone?"

Angela shook her head in response to Sweets' question. "I've been in the process of virtualizing for a while now. I had to be creative with data loads, but anyone looking at the network would think that physical machine is still there. Instead, it's sitting next to the others, running the decryption program without being seen."

"That's good, Angela. Thank you." Brennan stood. "I'm going to go look over the Foster case, see if I actually did miss anything." She hesitated, then looked around at them. "Thank you. And Booth thanks you."

"He goes down, we all eventually do," Hodgins said. "The white hats have to win here, or we're all screwed."

Brennan stared at him. "White hats?"

"He means the good guys, sweetie."

"Like in the Western films that Booth watches."

"Exactly."

Booth had an extensive collection of such films. Even as the thought formed, she amended it to past tense: he'd had an extensive collection. The DVDs had probably not survived the fire fight. Suddenly weary, she said, "Maybe I'll wait to begin my re-examination of the Foster case until in the morning. I'm going to Max's - I want to see Christine." Her throat closed on the last words, and she turned. She needed to leave, needed space, needed to hold her child. Booth's child.

"Brennan." Something in Angela's voice had Brennan turning back toward her. "You might want to clean up here before you go." At Brennan's look of confusion, her tone gentled. "You still have Booth's blood on you."

She looked down, stared at her sweater and then lifted her hands, examined them. Blood. It was only blood. With a nod of acknowledgement toward Angela, she turned toward her office, where she kept spare clothes. It only made sense in a lab environment - particularly this one, where Hodgins' experiments could misfire at anyone. After the case involving the doomsday survivors, she had even started keeping a change of clothes for Booth.

Blood. It was only blood, something she was no stranger to.

Change of clothes in hand, she went to the decontamination area, carefully locking the outer door behind her. Cam had had the lock installed after walking in on Clark - even as she'd sent a reminder that the shower wasn't to be used except for emergencies. Cam was nothing if not practical about the people she worked with.

As she stripped, she occupied herself by evaluating whether the board, or whoever Cam answered to in this respect, would consider the current circumstances an emergency.

Blood. It was only blood.

In the shower, she turned the water on high and hot. She'd not even known she was cold until she started shaking. The water hit her face, her hands, and streaked toward the drain, pink in color.

Blood. It was only blood.

But it was Booth's blood, and she sank to the floor and wept while the water poured over her.

B&B

Brennan slowed as she turned into their drive three days later. Barron had called and told her the FBI techs were done processing the scene and the house had been released back to her. She sat for a moment, studying the damage: crime scene tape, bullet holes, boards on the windows the crime scene techs had put up, to secure the scene.

The inside would be worse, and as much as she wanted her focus to be on finding evidence that would clear Booth, there were decisions that had to made here. She had an appointment with the insurance agent scheduled for later, but first, she needed to know if the techs had missed anything.

She'd known what to expect when she stepped inside, but it was still a shock to the system. Smoke, destroyed furniture, blackened walls. At a sound, she turned, saw Hodgins and Angela coming in behind her.

"Whoa." Hodgins turned in a slow circle. "I knew it was bad, but this is something out of a war movie."

"It's worse than I remembered," Brennan said. "I suspect the techs did more damage in their efforts to clean up the evidence."

"As opposed to doing their job and collecting it." Sarcasm laced his tone. "Guess we don't have to wonder if the conspiracy has spread to the FBI Crime Lab."

"At least the ones who were here. They cleaned up the blood." Brennan motioned to where one of the fallen agents had been.

"Then they're not operating according to protocols, so they may have missed something." He turned again, surveying the room. She knew he was imagining the details of the firefight.

She didn't have to imagine it. And as if afraid she'd forget it, her subconscious insisted on revisiting it in dreams every night. Dreams that didn't always end with Booth still alive. Queasy, she cleared her throat. "I imagine they did. That would be a side effect of preventing us from working the scene."

"Eliminate the best, you get substandard." Pulling evidence bags out, he began working in a clockwise pattern around the room, searching for anything the crime lab had missed.

Angela, who'd still not said anything, walked over and stood next to her, tears in her eyes. "Your beautiful house."

Home. Family. When she'd once thought she'd have neither. A thousand memories were here, from watching Booth and Wendell rebuild it, while she waddled around pregnant, to their first nights with Christine, to the sofa where, more than once, they'd impulsively made love. "It's just physical materials, Angela." She couldn't allow herself to think otherwise. "The priority is Booth."

Her friend cleared her throat, and pulled out her camera. "Damn straight it is. How is he?"

"Barron saw him this morning. They're treating an infection in his leg, but apart from that, he's beginning to regain his strength. The doctors are refusing to be bullied by the bureau into releasing him to the jail. The told Barron it might be another week."

"But they still won't let you see him."

"No. But it's better for him to be in the hospital."

"This whole thing sucks."

There was nothing to say to that, so Brennan went to help Hodgins while Angela began taking photos of the devastation from every possible angle.

They worked in silence for a while, and then Hodgins said, "I might have something here." He had his flashlight focused on part of the wall destroyed in a blast, was poking at the debris with a knife. "Here." He handed Brennan the light, and used tweezers to carefully remove what he'd found.

"A shell." Brennan looked around. "Booth was right here when I came in, making it likely that it's one of theirs."

He dropped it into an evidence bag. "Then let's see what type of firearm it matches."

They found blood spatter that Brennan was certain wasn't Booth's, and she crouched, watched as Hodgins carefully collected samples, while Angela documented with the camera where each came from. "They tried to clean it up," he said. "which is damning in itself. But they're not professional cleaners."

"No. And that will help us." She stood, surveyed the room. And saw only a crime scene.

B&B

Eleven days after the attack, Brennan pulled into her father's driveway a few minutes before midnight. It was a small house, tucked away in an old neighborhood, but it had a yard for Christine to play in, and trees to provide privacy - a necessity, according to Max.

She really should think about finding another place for them to live. They couldn't stay with her father indefinitely, and there was no room here for Booth. She clung stubbornly to the belief that they'd soon find a way to free him.

Still, living with Max made the practicalities easier. She'd fallen into a pattern of working during the day, going to the house for supper and Christine's bedtime and then returning to the lab for a few more hours' work.

She was exhausted. But she'd been tired before, and giving up wouldn't find the answers.

The hours with her daughter were important for both of them. She knew that. But they were also the hardest. In the lab, it was easier to put aside the fear, focus on the science. With Christine, it was impossible. What was she supposed to say when the little girl asked where her father was? According to Booth, Brennan didn't always choose correctly in terms of age-appropriate information for their daughter, but she was certain saying, 'Daddy's in jail on falsified charges for killing three men' would be wrong. Maybe Sweets would know. She'd ask him tomorrow.

Firmly putting aside the question for the moment, she exited the car. She'd only taken a few steps toward the house when she realized that she wasn't alone, that someone was watching her from the shadows outside the pool of light cast by the porch light. She slowed, aware of the adrenaline spike. It wasn't the best neighborhood, though her father's reputation generally provided more than adequate security so it probably wasn't a common criminal waiting to assault her. On the other hand, whoever it was had had plenty of time to fire a weapon at her, and hadn't done so.

Tightening her grip on her bag, she strode forward, only to stop when the figure moved closer to the light. The knots in her stomach loosened, just a bit, when she recognized him. "Danny."

"Dr. Brennan."

They stared at one another for a moment, and then he said, "I've been out of the country. What the hell is going on?"

Where to start? Who to trust? "What have you heard?"

"That Booth is under arrest for killing three FBI agents."

Booth liked this man, but didn't completely trust him. It left Brennan unsure of what to say. "That is correct."

"It's correct. But I want the truth." Obviously growing impatient, he added, "I can't help if I don't know."

Trust him, or not? Brennan stared at him for a long moment. "Booth was attacked in our home by Delta Force agents who were sent to kill him due to an investigation we're in the middle of."

He whistled. "Must be some investigation." He gave her a sharp look. "Delta Force being ID'd as FBI to frame him? Someone's really unhappy with that investigation."

Still unsure of how much to say, she nodded.

"So you prove they're not with the FBI and..." his voice faded. "Their records have been purged."

"And others falsified."

"My agency will have records on them."

Booth liked him. Whether he trusted him or not, he wouldn't want him blindly walking into a mess. "I doubt that," she finally said. "What we've uncovered goes beyond the FBI."

"Delta Force guys work with us on occasion. We'll have files."

"You might have had records on them. I wouldn't count on it now."

He shook his head. "They may have tried, but we've got records God himself couldn't find."

"Official files proving they were Delta Force, not FBI, would help a great deal," Brennan finally said.

"Look, I know Booth doesn't completely trust me. But I owe him. And this pisses me off."

B&B

Brennan settled into the hard plastic chair in front of the glass divider. Aware of the noise of the guards and other visitors around her, her focus was nevertheless on the room on the other side of the barrier, the door through which Booth would walk.

Twelve days. She'd not seen him in nearly two weeks. Barron had pushed - and pushed hard, she knew - to keep him in the hospital as long as possible. He'd told her he'd be much safer there while recovering from his injuries, and the longer he could delay Booth being sent to the jail, the better. He'd wanted him as recovered as possible before he wound up - no doubt 'accidentally' - with the regular jail population. Brennan hadn't been able to argue with the logic, indeed, had been grateful that Barron had managed to keep him in the hospital for a full nine days. But with the visitor schedule being what it was, it meant today was the first chance she'd had even to see him since she was pulled from the hallway outside his recovery room.

The door on the other side finally opened, and he stepped through. Brennan could see the armed deputies on the other side who were escorting him, but beyond a passing thought that two seemed excessive, her attention stayed on the man coming towards the chair across from her. His gait was sure, confident, and something in her uncoiled a bit...until her eyes met his through the glass. He was exhausted, and, based on the lines radiating out from around his eyes, still in pain. But his voice sounded almost normal as he spoke into the phone. "Hey, Bones."

She had to clear her throat. "Hello, Booth. How are you?"

"I'm great. The hospital fixed me right up. How are you?"

The dialog was stilted, nothing like the usual for them. Reading peoples' expressions and body language wasn't one of her skills. That was no great secret. But Booth wasn't just anyone. Despite her hurt, she'd known, known, that Pelant was behind his calling off the wedding the year before, and since then, she'd become more aware of how often she knew what he was thinking before he said it, what he needed before he asked for it.

And right now, what she was knew was that there was not a little bravado going on across from her. She knew enough to understand why: that he couldn't afford to come across as vulnerable in any way, and so forced himself to be strong, no matter the state of his recovery.

Another thing she knew was that he was worried about not saying anything - either of them - that could be used against them.

"I'm fine. Christine is fine." Should she tell him how much their daughter missed him? That she asked for Booth every day? Would that reassure him about how much he was loved, or hurt him more? She thought the latter, so settled for, "She misses you."

"I miss her. I miss you both."

They watched each other through the glass for a moment. Too much to say, no way to say it. "Danny stopped by," she said as casually as possible. "He said to tell you hello, and that he's thinking of you."

His eyes sharpened with understanding, and he nodded. "Tell him to say the hell out of trouble."

"I will." Another painful silence. "Angela, Hodgins, Cam, and Sweets all said to tell you to be careful." She left unsaid that they were working nearly around the clock to find something that would free him.

Another nod. He'd understood that one, too. "Tell them I'm fine."

"We've been back in the house," she said. Tricky, tricky. It wouldn't be an unexpected topic for her to mention, but... "Hodgins and Angela helped me go through it, pulling out what could be salvaged. It was interesting, the items that were destroyed while others were left intact." She pinned him with her eyes. The round they'd found had been fired from a semi-automatic that wasn't standard FBI-issue, but she couldn't tell him that. She could only hope he'd understand that they'd found something of use.

The puzzled look in his eyes cleared. "Some of your historical doodads, I hope."

"A variety of items," she said with a nod. "I've also met with the insurance company. They want to know what we want to do with the house."

For the first time since coming into the room, he looked away from her, and when he looked back, his face was expressionless. "I don't know, Bones. I can't think about it right now. Do whatever makes the most sense to you."

She didn't need Sweets sitting there to tell her the topic distressed him. "Very well." Silence fell again, and she struggled for something it was safe to talk about. "I've skyped a couple of times with Parker," she finally said. "Explained everything to him."

For a moment, his eyes lightened. "I'll bet you did," he murmured. "Thanks for that. Tell him..."

"He knows you love him, Booth."

"Yeah, I guess."

A buzzer sounded, followed by a voice over the PA system announcing the end of visiting hours. He stiffened, and she realized that she'd not even noticed the degree to which his posture had relaxed while they'd been talking - not until the tension came back. "Gotta go, it looks like."

"I love you."

"Love you, too, Bones."

As they stood, gazes still locked on each other through the glass, she quietly added, "We're going to get you out of here."

"I know."

The door behind him opened and Booth hung up the phone, watched her for another few seconds before turning and walking toward the waiting deputies. It took effort to walk as if he weren't in pain, as if there weren't still bouts of weakness, so he focused on that until he was back in his cell.

Solitary, for the time being, the jail's nod to his status as a cop. He was pretty sure David Barron was being an absolute bastard about those kinds of details. It was a good thing, as it had been made plain to him within an hour of his arrival that the guards would just as soon kill him as not, and the other inmates had less restraint than that.

Booth laid back on the hard bunk, threw his arm over his eyes, and thought about what Brennan had told him. She'd surprised him. Her acting ability was improving, and the fact that she'd managed to tell him quite a bit, all while sounding like she was making casual conversation, impressed him.

Danny was trying to help from within the CIA, the squints were all still working the leads, and they'd found something useful in the house.

The house. The home he'd destroyed in an attempt to keep them all alive a little while longer. He'd not lied to her when he told her he couldn't think about it. It was just a physical space, that's all. Just bricks and wood that could be replaced or rebuilt. It wasn't the priority here. Getting out of this hell hole, rooting out and destroying the rot inside the FBI - that was the priority.

But it had been their house, damn it. The symbol of the life they'd made together.

They'd make another. One way or the other, they'd win, and would continue that life.

B&B

Brennan surveyed the empty living room. Shortly, she'd be meeting with the insurance adjustor, the representative for the restoration company, and the general contractor, to sign off - or not - on the work they'd completed to restore and repair the house.

They'd done excellent work. New floors, rebuilt walls, fresh paint...you'd never know that lives had been destroyed here, that men had died violent deaths.

But she would know. It wasn't that she couldn't recall the good memories, such as the last time she'd seen it bare, right before they moved in. It was just that the memories, the sounds, the smells, the terror, Booth's blood beneath her hands, was stronger.

They couldn't stay here. Couldn't return here. She knew it was irrational. It was only a building, after all, one with many happy memories, and she should be able to tell herself that they'd make more, even that it would be a victory of sorts to return here, to reclaim their home. But irrational or not, she knew if they lived here, she'd see Booth falling every time she stood in this location, looked in that direction. Even if they secured his freedom and he was here, too, that's what she would see.

If? When had she stopped thinking 'when'? She did still believe they would find a way to free him. They were too good, and day by day, they were stockpiling little bits of evidence that, together, would eventually overwhelm even the most powerful conspiracy in the world. Eventually. It had only been a month, after all. _A lifetime of hours without him, of nights without his warmth, of moments without watching him with Christine._

But she was practical. And if she couldn't imagine living here with him, the thought of going on without him, here, was even less of an option.

They would have to move. She thought he'd be okay with it. He'd told her more than once, in their brief, stilted conversations, to do as she saw fit, and never once had he indicated a preference for trying to resume their life here. So she'd take his words at face value - which he would be assuming of her, anyway - and do just that. And she'd do it soon.

Christine's behavior was becoming unpredictable, and Sweets had said that while the bulk of it was probably her missing her father, that the disruption of living with Max was likely a factor as well. There was a big difference between staying with grandpa occasionally, and in not having your own routines, in your own home.

Without Booth, it still wouldn't be their routines. But it would be closer. They'd build a new life, she and Christine, new rhythms, the center of which would be planning for the day when Booth would join them.

New memories, new life. But how many times would they have to start over?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks so much to those of you who've taken the time to review. I'm a slow writer, so this has been a summer project for me - I hope you continue to enjoy it.

* * *

Booth shifted, and in the dark privacy of his still-solitary cell, grimaced. The new bruises, from this morning's attack in the cafeteria, overlaid the ones from yesterday and hurt like a son of a bitch.

It helped, marginally, that he knew that most of the time, he'd given as many bruises as he'd received. So far. He wasn't stupid, and sooner or later, they'd gang up on him.

Five weeks he'd been in this hell hole. Two weeks longer than when he'd been captured by the enemy during that army mission, and worse by far. In both instances, there had been the need for constant vigilance, the awareness that his life was at risk. And pain. His body didn't see the difference between torture in an enemy camp, and having the shit beat out of him by a guy who outweighed him by seventy-five pounds.

But there, he'd known his guys were coming for him. That the army he served in the name of the US of A was actively working to get him out. Here? That same government was hoping he'd die, sooner rather than later.

No. Not the entire government. Not everyone. He would still salute the flag, still believed in what it stood for. But after five weeks, if Brennan and the others hadn't found a way of freeing him, it meant that the corruption was more wide-spread than they'd thought. And without honorable men and women who were willing to stand up for those ideals, the flag was just a piece of cloth.

A buzzer sounded, followed by a PA announcement. Mass would begin in fifteen minutes in the common room. Prisoners who wished to attend should indicate such by coming to the door of their cell.

Booth shifted, tried again to find a comfortable position. He still believed in God, too. But three weeks of essentially the same homily - turn from the sins that brought you here, jail is an opportunity to start over - and he was done with it. If innocent-until-proven-guilty didn't reach to church services for men awaiting trial, he'd add 'skipping mass' to his sin total. More than once, he'd wished for Aldo, had considered writing him. But what could he say? And if Booth's struggles with the toll of the lives he'd taken had driven his friend away from God, what would the reality of Booth's false imprisonment do?

An opportunity to start over - the priest was right about that. When he was freed, he would find a way to break the conspiracy. But then? It might be time for something else.

At that point, as they inevitably did, his thoughts turned to Brennan. She was exhausting herself, and there was nothing he could do. Generally, when she was wearing herself thin over a case, he could pull her back from the edge, find a way to help her relax her brain. But not this time. Not when he was the case, and he was helpless to make a difference. She'd told him she was looking for a new place to live, and he thought that might help. He appreciated all that Max was doing for them, but they needed more space than a shared bedroom in a small house.

He was glad she was selling the house. While home, for him, would always be where she and Christine were, where Parker came on his visits, it was no longer that house wrecked by betrayal and violence.

A fresh start. Maybe the priest had a point, after all.

B&B

"No, Angela."

"Brennan, you need a break. You need to relax. So does Christine."

She'd moved on from 'sweetie,' Brennan noted. "A barbeque won't help Christine, Angela. Finding a way to bring her father home will."

"An afternoon with friends would be good for both of you."

"I'm not going to engage in social activities while Booth is in jail."

Her friend made a noise of frustration. "You're worse than he was, you know." At Brennan's look, she continued. "When you were on the run from Pelant, and we were all trying to make sure he was okay."

"I'm fine."

"Look, you're missing the point. It's not a party, just a chance to relax with friends...friends we need to be able to talk openly with, without anyone wondering why the DOJ and FBI are at the lab for a meeting. We need to get together. All of us, including Sweets and Caroline."

Ah. Brennan's brain caught up with what her friend was saying. She was right. And there were no active cases to explain an official meeting right now. Brennan sighed. "Very well, Angela. When is the barbecue?"

"Our place, 3PM on Saturday."

B&B

Watching Christine chase Michael Vincent around the Hodgins' back yard, Brennan was forced to admit that maybe Angela was right. Booth had been in jail for six weeks, and the separation was taking a toll on the little girl.

And her mother. Brennan had never required as much sleep as others seemed to, often managing on three or four hours for multiple nights in a row before sleeping a full night. But many of the nights since he'd been gone, she'd not even bothered going to bed. What was the point, when she'd either lie in bed, her mind racing, hunting for a way of freeing him, or she'd sleep, and revisit the night of the attack, over and over, in her dreams?

And Booth? Brennan saw him once a week - the most the jail would allow - and week by week, was watching him fight harder for the optimism that normally marked his life.

She didn't know what to say to help him. If she could tell him the angles they were working, the progress they were making, maybe it would help, but all she could safely do was drop hints. And subterfuge wasn't an area of strength for her. Sometimes, humor would briefly touch his expression, and she'd know he understood her clues and was amused, but mostly, the visits were grim. The new bruises he seemed to have every week didn't help, though he dismissed them.

After the meal, which Brennan had to admit was a pleasing mix of cuisines and styles, Arastoo took the children into the house to read to them so the adults could talk without interruption. "I invited Wendell and Clark," Angela noted. "But Wendell was going to be with his mother, and Clark had other plans as well. I didn't see the others after we decided to do this."

"It's just as well," Cam said. "Right now, none of the rest of them are at risk due to what they know, because they don't know anything."

"The problem is that none of us know enough," Hodgins muttered.

Sweets cleared his throat. "Here's what I know, well, what I'm nearly sure of: the agent who was promoted to Booth's position, Drew Marlow, knows what's going on. And if he knows what's going on, he's in on it."

"Even the press noticed he doesn't have the credentials or experience for that job," Hodgins said. "They're going to crucify him if he can't close cases."

Angela topped off her wine. "Hard to close as many cases as Booth did, when they've shut us out as well."

Ignoring the look she gave him, Hodgins took her glass, and sipped from it. "I know one I'll bet they have trouble with. Did you hear about those bones that were found yesterday in the basement of that cabin that was damaged by the storm? It once belonged to the mob, and there's already speculation it might be that mob boss who vanished ten years ago - or his twin brother, who disappeared at the same time."

"How do you know these things?" Angela plucked the glass out of his hands. "Get your own refill."

"Hey! And I follow the news."

"You ask me, if not for Dr. Saroyan's reputation, they'd have done more than just pull you off cases," Caroline said.

Brennan looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"They wanted to shut the lab down completely, but couldn't figure out how to do it without causing themselves more problems. Dr. Saroyan's willingness to investigate you when Pelant framed you made her the golden girl. No way for them to make you look bad with that behind you."

Cam paused in the middle of sipping her own drink. "Is that a warning, Caroline?"

"Be careful, all of you. They don't really understand how dangerous you are to them. They think with Booth out of the picture, you'll turn into test tubes or something. You need to make sure they keep thinking that."

"It was clear during my interrogation that they are remarkably ignorant of what forensic scientists do," Brennan said. Her eyes met Cam's, and she realized they both were recalling that Booth had once been the same way.

"Different topic," Angela swirled her wine in the bottom of her glass, a frown on her face. "The press has been totally one-sided in going after Booth, but there's not been anything out there to counter the official story. But if we gave them what we have, would it be enough to help him?"

"Well, the bureau keeps reminding them of the official story," Sweets said. "And ...slow news month."

"Lay it out for me, chere. What do you have? I've heard bits and pieces from Boy Wonder here," she motioned toward Sweets, "about DNA and a shell, but I don't know how it fits together."

Cam shook her head. "I'm not sure it does. We've confirmed that one of the men from the house was also one of the men who killed Foster. The DNA on the shirt that Dr. Brennan found was a match. We're still working with the other samples from the house, which were more degraded."

Caroline shook her head. "Your official report was that Foster died of misadventure. You try to take that back now, whoever's behind that won't even have to say please to the press to have them tear you apart."

"I knew I shouldn't have let Booth persuade me to falsify that report," Brennan said.

"Too late now for attacks of conscience. What else do you have? What's this about a shell?"

"I found a shell from an MPK5 in the rubble of their house." Hodgins said. "It's issued to special forces, not FBI."

"I take it Booth wasn't hiding one in the garage along with the C4?"

Brennan ignored the sarcasm that was clear even to her. "No. It was one of theirs. But I detect your meaning."

"Not a reason in the world they won't jump on that. Anything else?"

"I've been going through a list of all members of the special forces, looking for three who don't have DNA on file with the government. I've found one so far."

"You have both lists through legal means?"

"Yes. I was provided the full list a few years ago, when I was researching deaths of soldiers due to brain injuries - before they shut me down. The DNA database is one of our standard ones."

"That might hold up," Caroline said after a moment's consideration. "But it's a risk. You spring that on them, and they find a way to discredit it, then before you blink, your lab will be shut down, and that evidence will go away, too."

Brennan spoke up. "I saw Danny last night. He told me that he's discovered a file on one Delta Force agent that doesn't match a different database. But he's also realized he's being watched, so is being very careful."

"The spooks are being spied on? Man, that sucks."

Brennan threw Hodgins a glance. "The conspiracy is far-reaching. But once he has sufficient proof, he'll bring it to me."

"It sounds like you've got a lot of little pieces," Caroline said. "But you need more than a bunch of things these guys can twist and use against you. You need a whole smelly pile of smoking guns."

Brennan swallowed and looked away. She'd worked criminal cases for most of her career. She knew full well what it took to build a case, and what it would take to clear Booth. And they didn't have it. And tomorrow, she'd have to go in and tell him that they didn't. And then she'd have to get up and walk away from him. Again.

She was failing him. Every punch he took was because she'd not been able to find a way to clear his name and get him out of there.

"Hey now, chere." She looked over at Caroline's voice, realized they were all watching her as she blinked away tears. "You get enough of those little pieces, it will do the job."

B&B

There were two modes in jail, at least for a cop: bored brainless and scared shitless. They both ran pretty much all the time, and survival depended on making certain no one saw the fear.

It was exhausting. It was something Booth had first learned a long time ago, in a country where English wasn't the first language. But it was just as true in DC. And bored prisoners were like powder kegs waiting to go off. That, too, was the same. Maybe the guys who thought chain-gangs a good idea had been on to something.

Sitting straight up on the rock hard bunk, his back to the wall, he let his eyes partially close in concentration. Most of his time was spent trying to figure out where the next attack would come from, but because fixating solely on that would actually make him more likely to miss a threat, he also spent his days working through every agent, every bureaucrat, every tech he'd ever encountered in the FBI. Which ones were capable of conspiracy? Of blackmail? Of murder? No matter how smart they were, or how good they were, there would be clues. He'd just never known to look for them before.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Booth's eyes snapped open, but the only other indication of his fully alert state was his hand, loosely resting on his knee, slowly closing and then re-opening. The man across from him on the other bunk had been shoved into the cage a few hours earlier by a smirking deputy. Barron was going to be pissed. "I'm solving a problem."

He knew his cell mate by reputation. Darrin Wright - tattoo of a claw on his neck - had convictions for armed robbery, assault, drug trafficking and God knew what else. Everything except murder, which he always seemed to slip out of.

Wright sneered. "With your eyes closed?" His body telegraphed his plans to Booth, and in the short seconds it took for him to come across the cell, Booth was on his feet, waiting. But the other man simply stopped in front of him, and then moved in very close. "I don't like cops," he said conversationally. "So they put me here hoping I'll kill you. But I'm not stupid. And I'm not going down to make things easier for them fuckers. Won't stop anyone else who wants to, though."

Booth met his gaze. "That's handy. And I'm not all that easy to kill."

Wright shrugged, stepped back to his bunk and resumed his seat. "Not going to find out. At least not unless you really piss me off in some way."

"Noted."

Silence resumed, broken only by the shouts and sounds of way too many permanently pissed-off, afraid people living in cages in far too little space.

"Heard you killed three agents who came to arrest you."

Booth hesitated. It was a field of landmines. Tell the truth? Lie? Say nothing and risk pissing Wright off? Wouldn't that be a kicker, if he was cleared of murdering the supposed agents, and arrested for killing a prisoner in self-defense? "That's the story," he finally said. Lying was far riskier than the truth, he decided. He didn't need Wright trying to get traction for his own case by repeating lies Booth had told him. Then again, no one would believe the truth, anyway. Yet. They would someday, whether he was alive to see it or not.

"What were they arresting you for? What do you got to do to get three agents after your ass?"

Booth shrugged. "We didn't discuss it. They broke into my house and started shooting. I fired back."

Wright sat up. Booth's story was apparently more interesting than the inside of his eyelids. "You got to know what set them off."

"Supposedly, there was a warrant for something I did during a classified mission in the army years ago." Boggy, boggy ground. Shouldn't even acknowledge the mission, let alone bring it up in conversation. But that part had been in the news, that first day. Since then, the exact reason for why the 'FBI agents' had been serving a warrant on him had largely been skipped over in favor of 'DECORATED FBI AGENT MURDERS THREE OTHER AGENTS' headlines.

The other man's eye's narrowed. "FBI wouldn't come after you for that." He stabbed a finger at Booth. "Had a cousin who did the army for a couple of years."

"That's the story."

"Shit. You pissed someone way off."

"Looks that way."

Wright turned, stretched out again, and closed his eyes, the entertainment portion of the day over, apparently. Booth relaxed marginally, considered the conversation. If a con could see the holes in his arrest, why didn't anyone else? The media was notoriously fickle, and generally more interested in what would get ratings than reality, but shouldn't someone by now have asked the question that Wright had just asked?

Someone in the FBI was working very hard to keep the public focused on the dead agents, including their completely fabricated lives of service in the bureau, honors, and grieving families. Families who were in currently in seclusion, and not giving interviews. And so far, everyone seemed to be buying that, hook, line, and sinker.

It didn't surprise him as much that other agents, clean ones untainted by the mess, wouldn't have started wondering why no one seemed to know the men. There were a hell of a lot of agents, and no one knew all of them. And as cops, they were hardwired to not ask questions about fallen comrades, even if they were privately confused by the lack of details being released about what field office the 'victims' had worked out of.

There were clean agents out there, along with untainted judges and politicians. Honorable men and women who served their country with pride. He had to believe that. To Booth's mind, the extent of the conspiracy proved only the skill of the one behind it, his or her's determination to find weak people who could be blackmailed and exploited. It couldn't be everyone, because the more people whoever was driving the whole thing snagged, the more people he'd have to watch.

So, no. Not everyone. In his mental run through the agents he knew, he'd divided them into groups: people he'd absolutely trust with his life; people he didn't know well enough to judge, and people, who, yeah, something there made him uncomfortable. If he ever got out of here, he'd be taking a closer look at the last group.

The system was good. Though his first group was much smaller than it would have been a few months earlier, the idea behind the US government, of checks and balances, and limited power, was good. When he'd enlisted in the army decades before, he'd taken an oath to support and defend the Constitution, and had understood his life might be the price for that defense. He'd taken a similar oath when he joined the bureau.

The same organization charged with combating 'public corruption at all levels.'

He was no less ready to sacrifice his life for his country now than he'd been twenty years earlier. He believed right would win, even knowing that sometimes the cost of victory was a man's life. And if he died here, he knew Brennan and the others would never stop until the conspiracy was completely shut down.

But he had a hell of a lot to live for.

They spent so much time together - work, home - that not being able to turn to her whenever he wanted was like a missing limb. He kept having conversations with her in his head. And Christine...how had Brennan explained any of this to her? Parker was old enough to understand the basics, but how would his curious little girl be making sense of any of this?

God, he missed them.

B&B

She shouldn't look. There was nothing productive in checking news sites to see what they were reporting about Booth. The media was all still, as Hodgins had worded it, 'drinking the FBI's Kool-Aid' and reporting on all the evidence against him, including full histories of the supposedly heroic men he'd murdered, not one of whom had actually existed.

And yet, she couldn't help herself, and every few days would google his name to see if anyone was even asking relevant questions.

"Brennan?" She was about to hit 'search' when Angela's voice from the door stopped her. "Cam needs us."

Because she identified the urgency in her voice, Brennan didn't ask for details, merely followed her up to the lounge. In addition to Cam and Hodgins, Sweets was there, as was Clark.

Cam stood next to the rail, her hands clasped in front of her. When she saw them, she nodded toward the sofa. "Sweets has something for us."

For a moment, hope that it was something to do with Booth was live in Brennan before she shut it down. That wouldn't come via this sort of meeting.

He didn't keep them in suspense. "The bureau is giving you the remains found in the cabin, the one that belonged to Frank Morelli. Their people can't figure out whether it's Frank or his twin, Fred."

Angela frowned. "I thought they weren't sending us any more cases."

"They don't know what to do with you," Sweets said. "It's not within their power to shut down the lab, and no one here's accused of any wrong doing. But they don't like your relationship with Booth." His look at Brennan was full of apology. "But now, though the media has been focused on Booth's arrest, some of them are starting to ask why the bureau can't figure out who those remains belong to."

"So Dr. B IDs the guy, and sticks it to them."

Sweets looked from Hodgins, to Clark, to Brennan. "They're insisting Clark take lead on it," he blurted.

It should bother her. A few months' earlier, it would have. Now, it didn't seem particularly important.

Clark cleared his throat. "They approached me last week about working in their lab. It was to be a trial. I work with them, ID the remains, I get my own lab there, making more money than I'm making now."

Complete silence fell as they all stared at him. He shrugged. "I told them no. Look," he focused on Brennan. "I may never be you, but I'm a damned good forensic anthropologist, and the reason I am is due to you. I'm not going behind your back, and I'm not going to help them push you aside.'

Brennan opened her mouth, and nothing came out. Gratitude, exhaustion, fear, grief...it was harder now to put aside emotions. "Thank you."

Sweets looked relieved. "That's good. That's very good. Ah...for this case, I'll be the liaison with the bureau."

"They couldn't find anyone else, could they?" Hodgins asked.

"They actually didn't want me to do it. But, no, they couldn't find anyone else. Two agents have resigned in the past few weeks, and I think it's because they're angry over what's going on. Some people are buying that the Delta Force guys were agents, but others have been quietly talking about how odd it is that no one knew them, no one knows anyone who went through Quantico with them. And the guys who knew Booth best? Totally not buying it."

"How do we know this case isn't a trap?"

"It's possible, but I don't see how," Sweets told him. "They have to keep the focus on Booth as a criminal, not their own incompetence."

Brennan frowned. Motivation was so not her area. "Are we hurting Booth, then, by helping them?"

"No," Cam answered. "We're helping ourselves by not giving them a reason to shut us down, which they were clearly hoping for in their offer to Clark. We stay in business, we can continue to work to free Booth."

"Let's get started, then," Brennan said. Maybe an actual case, with physical remains to study, would be good for them. Would allow all of them to approach Booth's situation with a fresh eye.

"There's one other thing," Sweets said. He looked so uncomfortable, even Brennan knew that for what it was. "I'm supposed to warn you to limit your investigation to this case, to these remains."

Brennan stared at him, baffled, and Angela said, "They don't want us working the conspiracy case. What the hell do they think we've been doing?"

"They don't know you," Sweets said. "They don't get any of you, not really."

"That's how we're going to take them down," Cam said.

B&B

Brennan looked from the remains spread out in front of her to Clark. "This is everything they sent us?"

"This is all of it." His expression was as confused as hers.

"We were told it was the skeletal remains of a single male, correct?"

"That's what they said. It's what it's been reported in the news, as well." With gloved hands, he re-positioned two of the bones, and frowned. "Maybe Hodgins was right and this is a trap, an attempt to discredit us."

"Since they gave them to us because they couldn't identify them, I don't see how. But their scientists should have seen this."

"None of them are forensic anthropologists."

"Even Cam would see this if she stared at it for as long as they did."

"Did I hear my name being taken in vain?" Cam asked as she stepped into the room. "Any progress?"

"There's a single skeleton here," Brennan said. At Cam's puzzled look, she added, "But the bones are from more than one individual."

"They're very similar," Clark said. "But not the same person. There are occupational markers on some of them that should be accompanied by other markers on others and aren't."

Brennan moved the magnifier so Cam could see. "Also, there's an remodeled injury to the head of the humerus that would have extended into the scapula based on what we see here, and it doesn't." She glanced at Clark. "Did they provide us with crime scene photos?"

"Yes." Clark moved to the computer, tapped some keys. "The bones were found behind a false wall in the cellar of the cabin. When the tree fell on the cabin during the storm, it dislodged part of the wall."

"That makes it difficult to determine how they were positioned before the storm."

Cam moved closer. "They're certain there were no other remains in the wall?"

"That's the story," Clark said.

"Although we've not determined cause of death yet, there's no indication the remains were cut apart before decomposition."

Clark looked over at Brennan. "So someone killed two or more individuals and later combined the bones to make it look like just one person was buried beneath the cabin?"

"And the bureau couldn't determine if it's Frank or Fred Morelli because it's some of both?"

"The FBI criminologists are morons," Clark said under his breath.

"We don't have evidence yet that it's either Morelli," Brennan said in answer to Cam. "But I assume the fact that it was combined remains confused them." She looked down at the bones.

Before Cam could respond, they heard steps, and Angela came to the door. "Hey. A courier just dropped this off for you. He wasn't one I've seen before." She handed a padded envelope to Brennan. "I scanned it."

It was small, and nearly flat, making it unlikely to be an explosive device, but Brennan appreciated the caution. She opened it, and pulled out a single piece of paper and two USB thumb drives. Glancing at the paper, she said, "It's from Danny. He says he thinks it will interest us, and that he has to leave town for a while. The second drive is a copy of the first."

"In other words, what's there is important enough for him to send a backup." Angela reached out and took the drives. "These are 64 gigabyte drives. There could be a lot of information on them." She looked over at the PC. "We won't look at it here, though. Not on the network. We'll use the one in my office."

An hour later, Angela sat back and looked at Brennan, Cam, and Hodgins. "It's all here. Full files on three men showing their Delta Force histories, work they did for the CIA, their DNA, all of it."

"They were never FBI."

"I don't see how. They've been busy with Delta Force missions. And there's a separate file where Danny included details on the Quantico classes they were supposedly part of, and if they were there, it was not only when they were actually working for the CIA, but they didn't graduate with distinction."

Cam frowned. "As per the official story."

"But the FBI doctored the files," Hodgins said.

"Not these, and they're going to have a damned hard time explaining why the CIA databases don't match the FBI ones, particularly when these are more complete and a computer forensics specialist could prove these haven't been tampered with."

"No wonder Danny left town." He turned to Brennan. "This should clear Booth."

Weeks of failure, of not being able to put together enough pieces to do so had Brennan beating back the hope that sprang up at Hodgins' words.

Cam cleared her throat. "I hate to be a downer, but what do we do with the information? Until we know who we can trust, who isn't part of the conspiracy, anyone we take it to could refuse to act on it."

"Or use it against us," Angela said slowly.

Brennan hesitated. She was unused to not knowing what step to take. Decisions were always a matter of reasoning out the consequences of actions, of determining the rational course forward. But when you couldn't depend on other people acting the way they should, the way logic, reason, and morality expected them to, what was the best choice?

Her phone rang, and she looked at the display as she answered. "It's Barron," she said to the others. "Hello?" It took a moment for the words to penetrate, and when they did, she had to make a conscious effort to push back her terrified response. "I see. Thank you for notifying me. Please keep me apprised of his condition." She disconnected but continued to stare at the phone. "Booth was stabbed by another inmate, and is on way to the hospital. They do not believe his life is in danger." Her voice broke on the last word.

Angela came to stand next to her. "But he's still on the way to the hospital?"

She took a breath. "Barron says he was told the skiv hit muscle and bone, most likely a rib, and didn't penetrate to the lung." She repeated the words for herself as much as them.

"And you still won't be able to see him. Fuck that," Hodgins said.

Brennan looked at the monitor again, then reached over and picked up the USB drive that Angela had copied and then removed from the computer. "I know who to give it to. This has to end."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Apologies...I'd hoped to post this during lunch, and encountered technical difficulties in the form of the internet taking an hours' long break.

* * *

Although intellectually Brennan knew that the hours between midnight and 6AM had no more minutes in them than did any six hours during the day, they felt endless.

During the days, there was a never-ending stream to details to keep her busy. During the night, there was only fear and doubt.

She tried to use the time in a constructive fashion by unpacking more of the boxes remaining from the move. But no matter how disciplined she attempted to be in finding homes for their belongings, she'd wind up pacing from room to room, while telling herself that that's not what she was doing. Booth was the one who paced occasionally; she didn't. Or hadn't, at least.

Had she done the right thing? Had she trusted the right person? Too late to take it back now.

Too late to remember that she wasn't always the best judge of character.

Four days had passed since she'd made the call that set in motion events which could not now be changed, risking everything on the integrity of someone she really didn't know that well.

Indulging in doubt wasn't constructive. You made the best choices you could, and went forward, accepting the consequences, positive or negative.

But this time, the consequences could either be the desired outcome of his freedom, or, if she'd trusted wrongly, his death.

But not taking any action at all hadn't been an option, not when it was clear it was a matter of days before someone in the jail would succeed in killing him. But she'd thought there would be a faster response, whatever it was.

She waited. And paced.

B&B

He'd been damned lucky. Booth knew that. If the homemade weapon had been a little higher, he'd have been in trouble. Instead, he'd spent the night in the hospital, and now, five days later, was mostly just irritated by the twelve stitches across one of his left ribs. They itched.

He was alone again. After the attack, Barron had pressured them to put him back in a cell by himself, so Wright had been moved. He wouldn't go so far as to say he missed him, but Wright, still pissed at being manipulated, had warned him that other inmates were plotting to kill him.

Not that the warning was news. Booth accepted that he was going to die here. Just not this week, apparently. T

The door in the hall outside his cell clanged open, and a deputy appeared at his door. "Get your stuff together, Booth."

He sat up, reached for the bag that held the items he'd been able to keep with him - toiletries, mostly, and a picture of Brennan, Christine, and Parker. "What's up?" He didn't expect the deputy to tell him, but the man's tone had been less hostile than usual, so it was worth a try.

The deputy shook his head and opened the door. "Your lawyer is here."

It was more than that, but he'd know soon enough. The deputy led him through the heavy doors, down a hall way, through another locked door, and finally into what looked like a small conference room or unused office. He then stepped out, closing the door behind him. Booth stared at Barron. The other man looked as unflappable as always, but for a gleam of excitement in his dark eyes.

"What's going on?"

"All charges against you have been dropped."

Booth simply stared at him. Somewhere along the line, he'd stopped thinking about freedom. It had made focusing on survival easier. And after he'd been stabbed - while a deputy stood by, watching - there had been no point at all to hope.

He had never doubted Brennan would clear him, but had, after nearly four months, accepted it would be after his death.

_Home. _No, not the one they'd shared for three years, but home would always be wherever Brennan was. That, and a chance to sleep without fear was all he wanted in the entire world. One hundred and four days, and now, it hardly seemed real. "She did it. The squints did it."

"They had some help." Barron handed him a newspaper.

It was the front section of _The New York Times_, and midway down on the front page was the headline, "Evidence mounts that decorated FBI agent was framed by his own agency." He skimmed it, saw references to DNA matches, missing files, evidence the dead men had never been FBI agents, and CIA files that proved bureau files had been tampered with. Danny.

The focus was on the facts related to his arrest, with very little about the motivation behind it, and nothing about the conspiracy.

"The media has been hammering you," Barron said. "In a way that doesn't make sense, even for them. Being friends with the Chief International Correspondent for the Associated Press is handy."

"What?" Puzzled, Booth glanced up at him and then back down to the newspaper, where he finally noted the byline: "_By Hannah Burley_."

Well, shit. 'Friends' was way too complicated a term. But she was a damned good journalist.

They both looked up when the door opened, Booth automatically tensing against the fear that it was all a mistake. But he saw the same deputy who'd escorted him, and then every other thought was eclipsed by the woman standing there. "Bones."

"She's got a change of clothes for you," Barron said. "I'll wait outside."

He stepped out, and Brennan came in and closed the door, then simply stood there, studying him. The room was small, and he barely had to move before she was in his arms, a warm weight against him. From her position with her head in his shoulder, she whispered his name, but he couldn't find any words beyond repeating hers. His talisman during so many dark, endless nights. Finally, desperate to reassure himself that she was there, and that this was happening, that it wasn't part of some complicated nightmare, he kissed her. It was a little rough, rather wild, and was completely without finesse. _Bones._

When they parted, they were both out of breath. He rested his forehead against hers, and said. "Hannah?"

Brennan pulled away, just a little, and looked at him. "We didn't know who to trust. The media has been so uniformly biased, refusing even to question the obvious holes in the bureau's story..." her voice trailed off. "If we gave the evidence to the wrong person, we were afraid they would destroy it or twist it to use against you. I trusted her," she ended simply.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, and lowered his forehead to rest against hers. "Smart move."

"She wants a one on one with you."

The idea of being the focus of that kind of interview made him want to squirm. "I guess I owe her that."

"You do. She's flying in from Hong Kong and should be here tomorrow." Brennan looked at him, once more studying him, and he felt uneasy. Exposed in a way he seldom did with her. But for well over three months, his every thought had been guarding himself.

Brennan picked up the bag she'd dropped when she came in and handed it to him. "I didn't know what you'd want to wear, and didn't have much time to consider it."

"As long as it's not orange, I'm good."

Consternation settled onto her face, and confused, he opened the bag and pulled out his favorite, bright orange, Flyers t-shirt. He couldn't manage a full laugh, but the chuckle that escaped was at least honest. He brushed her lips with a kiss. "Flyers' orange is never a bad choice."

Although he'd never say so, though, he sort of wished she'd brought him a suit. It would be nice to walk out of this place as Seeley Booth, Special Agent.

Only he wasn't an agent, and might never be one again. He wasn't at all sure he _wanted_ to be one, for that matter. But he would never not be Seeley Booth, Flyers fan.

He stripped, his head jerking up when Brennan made a noise. She was staring at him in distress, and that was when he remembered the patchwork of bruises and new scars. At least with most of the old ones, some thought had generally been given to scarring. But not this time. No point in taking time on a body destined for life in prison. "I'm fine, Bones."

"You will be now." She sounded quiet, and very determined.

He dressed, and yes, being in jeans and his Flyers shirt felt as good as he'd expected it to.

There was a knock on the door, and Brennan opened it to Barron. "Are you about ready? I have some paperwork for you to sign, and the effects they've been holding for you."

Booth took the envelope, and looked inside. Generally, it might have a wallet or a watch; whatever personal effects a prisoner had on him when he went into the system. But Booth hadn't had anything like that on him during the firefight, so his envelope held only one thing. He shook the wedding ring out into his palm and then looked up, met Brennan's gaze as he slid it on. Better than Flyers' orange.

He signed the papers Barron had and tossed the pen down. "Now what?"

"The media is here in force, so I recommend you go out the back."

Booth nodded. He had no desire whatsoever to deal with the press.

"I'll go get my car and bring it around to the service entrance," Brennan said. "Will they allow me back there?"

"Yeah. They're expecting you."

With a glance at Booth, she walked out, and it took a concerted effort not to call her back. _Don't go. Don't leave me_. He grimaced. He was one fucked up man if he couldn't bear for his wife to leave him long enough to go get the car. He hoped her confidence that he would be okay wasn't misplaced.

B&B

Brennan sat in her car behind the jail, watching the door.

She was afraid. Her body was exhibiting all of the biological markers of fear: increased heart rate, heightened awareness of her surroundings, palms slippery on the steering wheel. It was irrational to be so afraid that something would go wrong, that whoever was behind the conspiracy would find a way to keep Booth in jail.

They might have wanted to try, but Hannah's article had caused an uproar being felt all over the world. The director of the CIA was standing firm on the accuracy of their files which proved the men killed during the attack on Booth had never been in the bureau, which was resulting in the FBI and the DOJ desperately pointing fingers at one another in an effort to find someone to blame while members of Congress, unable to figure out how to blame the opposing political party, were bizarrely united in their angry response. The President was promising a 'thorough investigation' and even other nations were trying to figure out if there were implications for international relations.

None of it mattered. Knowing that the people involved were far too busy trying to figure out how to keep from going to prison themselves to worry more about Booth didn't reassure her that someone wouldn't try.

And she couldn't bear the idea that they might prevent him from walking out that door. Not now. Not when they were so close. She'd told him once that she wasn't sure she could survive without him. Now, after the last few months, particularly the endless days since he was stabbed, she'd come to understand that without him, she could function, after a fashion. For Christine. For their daughter, for his child, she could go through the motions. Even find a smile for the little girl. But there was nothing for her. No joy, no laughter. No hope.

They could deal with whatever came next once he was free. They'd find a way forward, would get to the root of the conspiracy, and then figure out what came next. But his freedom came first.

The door opened, and he and Barron, with one of the deputies, stepped out.

B&B

Booth had told himself he'd relax once he was in the car, driving away from the jail. That his release would stop seeming like a fluke. But even as Brennan turned out of the alley onto the main street, away from the madness of the news trucks, he kept looking in the mirror for a tail.

"Where do you want to go? Christine is with Dad. He picked her up from daycare."

He stared out the window, tried to absorb the views of something other than cement blocks and iron bars. He'd missed a season, he realized. When he'd gone in, it had been early summer, and now, they were passing trees starting to turn. Three and a half months would be a lifetime to a three year old. What if- He pushed the thought aside, but another question remained: How many more months of her life was he going to miss due to consequences of their work?

"Let's go to the house, Bones. I want to wash off the stink of that place before I see her."

"Of course."

She changed lanes and turned right at the next light. He should probably be paying attention to where they were going, but the oddest thing in his life right now was not that he didn't know where his house was. It was that he didn't have a clue what came next. More than his next breath, he wanted to take down whoever was behind the conspiracy. But he wasn't an agent. He wasn't sure what he was.

He was free, and with Brennan. He forced himself to relax, and leaned his head back against the head rest. Desperate for something to fill the silence, he asked, "Are the squints working any cases right now?"

"Not really." She told him about the twin brothers. "We're not sure what it means. It wasn't that difficult to recognize that there were two sets mixed together. Sweets thinks they're just desperate not to have anyone questioning them. Caroline acknowledges it could be a test of some kind, but I don't understand what they were trying to prove besides the incompetence of their own technicians."

"I heard about that case even in jail, Bones. Maybe what's easy for you was hard for them."

"If so, then they need us more, not less."

He had no argument for that. "How's Christine?" Even as he asked the question, he acknowledged that he'd been afraid to, earlier. When Brennan didn't respond immediately, his gut clenched.

"She's doing better since we moved into the new house," she finally said. "But she's still urinating in her bed at night occasionally, behavior which Sweets says is not uncommon when a child's life has been severely disrupted."

_Severely disrupted_. Way to understate the obvious, Bones. "But she's happier now that she's back in a room of her own, with her books and toys, right?"

"She will be now." Brennan looked over at him. "She's missed you, Booth. The last few days she's been asking if I was sure Jesus hadn't taken you to heaven."

Breath left his lungs. "Maybe we should go straight to Max's." What the hell had he been thinking, to delay?

"We're almost to the house now. I'll have Dad bring her home while you shower. It will be good for you to be relaxed when you see her."

He was tense again, every muscle rigid. He grimaced, and forced his muscles to relax, one at a time. She had a point.

They were driving through an area he wasn't as familiar with, a mix of older and newer houses in the western suburbs, far enough out that some of the lots were twice the size of what they'd had. Off a side street, Brennan finally turned into a long driveway. Ahead of them, the house was obscured with trees. "It's an old farmhouse," she said. "Structurally sound, Wendell says, but it needs updating and some cosmetic work."

The drive split, one branch going into a detached garage, the other looping around in front of the wide porch. Brennan parked, and Booth exited the car, and then just stood there. Could he see himself living here? Was this home? He watched Brennan walk toward him, and saw anxiety in her eyes. She was worried about his response. He held out his hand, entwined their fingers, and took a deep breath, appreciating the scents of trees and grass. "It feels very private, Bones. I like that." More now than he would have a few months ago.

She relaxed, and he tugged her to him for a kiss before walking up the steps with her. As she unlocked the door, he began to see what she meant about the work it needed - the paint was peeling in spots, and as they stepped inside, he saw the wood floors were badly scarred. He could fix that.

The entry opened to a living room on the left, a dining room on the right, and stairs going straight up. Through the large arch, he could see that someone had modified the dining room so that it flowed into the kitchen, a breakfast bar between the areas.

There was a sofa - similar in design to the one they'd had in the old house - in the living room, but the TV, new in its box, sat next to the wall.

"We've not unpacked everything that the restoration company placed in storage for us," Brennan said. "Hodgins was going to help me hang the television, but-"

"Bones, stop." He turned toward her, irrationally angry at what was clearly an apology. "It's fine. It's great."_ It's not jail._ Aware that his tone was sharper than he intended, he reached out, touched her cheek. "You're exhausted. We'll unpack together."

"I didn't know how to find a house that would suit both of us. But this has many of the features that were important to you before."

How many of them would really matter to him now? The only thing he cared about was how distressed she sounded. "I like that the yard is so big. I like the privacy." He walked into the dining room, motioned toward the breakfast bar. "I like that. It's fine, Bones. It's all fine." He turned back to her. "All that matters is that you and Christine are here."

She studied him, then slowly nodded. "If you eventually decide you'd rather live elsewhere, we can probably resell it at a profit once we've repainted it."

How the hell did he know where he'd want to live, when he didn't know what he'd be doing? Maybe they'd move to California and he'd take that security job at the studio. "I like this house, Bones. It's got character." He smiled, and knew from her frown that the effort fell flat.

"Let me show you upstairs, so you can take a shower." She turned, and he followed her. "There's one bathroom and five bedrooms upstairs, though one is very small. It's positioned next to our room, though, over the laundry room, and Wendell thought you might want to turn it into an ensuite for us. He says he doesn't think the plumbing would be difficult to do."

"How is he?"

At the top of the stairs, she hesitated and looked back at him. "He's participating in a trial for a new drug being piloted by his doctor, and while there are no guarantees, the results so far are encouraging."

They passed a room with boxes labeled 'Parker' - of course she'd made sure there was a place for his son - across from an empty guest room, a bathroom on the left, and then two more rooms across from one another. "Christine's room is fully unpacked," she said, motioning to the left before turning into their room. It was bigger than the others, nicely sized for their bed and furniture. Boxes and suitcases were everywhere, and he was struck by the lack of organization she'd been living with while trying to free him. Knowing how much it would be bothering her, he bumped 'get completely unpacked' to the top of the list.

There were two closets along one wall, and Brennan pointed to one. "Your clothes are in there, mine are in the other one. They were all professionally cleaned to eliminate the smell of smoke from the explosions." She hesitated, and then said, "I'll let you take a shower, and will go call Dad."

He blinked at the abruptness, and reached out for her, tugging her to him. "Bones, it's all great." He rested his forehead against hers. "I'm sorry you had to cope with this."

"I'm sorry it took me so long to figure out how to get you out," she blurted.

He closed his eyes for a moment. "Don't do that. Don't go there. I knew you were doing everything you could."

She relaxed against him, making him aware, again, of how tense they both were. "We'll be fine, now."

There was a plea in her voice, and for one of the first times in their relationship, he knowingly, consciously lied to her. "Yeah, we will be."

Maybe saying it would make it so.

B&B

His soap was in the shower, waiting for him. Booth pondered that as he stripped. Much of the house was in boxes, she'd had little warning before his release, and yet, his very practical, rational wife had opened a fresh bar of soap and placed it neatly in the corner. Because it reminded her of him? It was the only explanation he could come up with, possibly because as the hot water beat down on him, he realized that the scent most prominent in the room was of the shower gel she used.

Water. Steam. Her scent.

He turned the water to cold and ducked his head under the water. Christine would be here shortly. Reunion of the kind his body was interested in would have to wait.

Shower complete, and re-dressed in his Flyers shirt and jeans, he went looking for her. Brennan was in the living room, unpacking a box of books. "Did the shower help?"

Trying not to feel foolish, he nodded. "Yeah. Hot water, my own soap...it's the little things, Bones." And if he said that often enough, maybe they'd both believe it. He was about to ask if she'd contacted Max when he heard a car. Telling himself it was Christine didn't help, and he stepped over to the window to make sure, though what he'd do if it was someone there to re-arrest him, he didn't know. Go on the run?

Then the door burst open and every thought fled but one. She was taller, his little girl, and had grown in the months they'd been apart. And she'd stopped mid-rush, to stare at him. Dread curled in his stomach as she frowned for just a moment before shrieking "Daddy!" and launching herself at him.

Nearly dizzy with relief, he caught her, happily absorbing the little body smacking into bruises. "Hey there, baby girl."

They held that way for a full minute, Christine clutching him, her face in his neck, while he took in the little girl scent of her, the texture of her hair against his cheek. When she pulled back to look at him, she was frowning again. "You're scratchy," she said, rubbing his cheek.

He was so used to the scruff, he'd not even thought of shaving. He moved his head, scratching against her fingers. "You're right. I need to shave."

"Can I watch?"

"Sure thing." With a final tight hug, he set her down, and looked over at the man standing behind her. "Hey, Max."

His father-in-law studied him. "It's rough on cops." With a glance at Christine, he said no more, instead lifting the bags he carried in both hands. "I thought you all might want to stay close to home today, just the three of you. So I stopped and got Viti's. Salad, two types of pasta, and enough garlic bread to counter the salad." He winked at Christine. "Might be dessert in there, too."

Brennan went to take the bag. "Thanks, Dad. I've not gone to the store in a couple of days, so it's good not to have to think about a meal." She turned toward the kitchen. "Do you want to help me put away the food, Christine?"

Her arms firmly wrapped around Booth's leg, she shook her head. "No. Daddy."

Brennan's eyes met his, and then she continued on to the kitchen.

"What about this?" Max swung the other bag, and Christine laughed.

"My Legos! Look Daddy!" She took the bag, and pulled out a toy set. "It's like Mommy."

"_'Research Institute - ages 10 and up_.' Really, Max?"

"She's fine with it, though I told her she can only play with it with a grown-up."

"Daddy, will you help me?"

He touched her head. "Of course. It looks like fun."

She sat down on the floor, so close to his foot he was afraid he'd trip over her, and examined the box.

"I'll be going now. Call if you need me."

Booth held out his hand. "Hey, Max. Thanks."

The other man clasped his hand. "Anytime. You know that. Bye, Christine."

She waved at him without looking up, her focus still on the toy, and Booth shared an amused look with Max, both recognizing the distracted look as one they'd seen regularly on Brennan.

B&B

Brennan leaned in the doorway of Christine's room, watching as her daughter sleepily protested, "Again, Daddy. Read it." He'd been doing just that for over an hour. She'd seen their daughter fight sleep, but never before like this.

Booth gave her a helpless look, and then said, "One more time, and then I'm going downstairs with Mommy, okay?"

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

She saw him react to the question before he leaned down and kissed their child's forehead. "Yes."

"Promise?"

"I promise." He hesitated before answering, and didn't look at Brennan as he turned to the beginning of the book again. "Last time."

Leaving him to it, Brennan went downstairs to pour them both some wine. After doing so, she settled on the sofa with hers and, noticing her phone blinking on the coffee table, picked it up.

Despite her private number, the reporters had caught up with them while Booth was in the shower that afternoon, and after answering three calls in succession from journalists she had no interest in talking to, she'd texted Angela so the others wouldn't worry, and turned it off.

Now, looking at the list of missed calls - twenty-six, from six different numbers - her annoyance grew. As she started through the list, deleting them, she heard Booth coming downstairs.

"What are you doing?"

"Deleting calls from journalists. They didn't want to talk to me at all while you were in jail unless I was willing to confess on your behalf, and now-" she made a noise of frustration.

On cue, the phone vibrated with another call, and she grimaced, recognizing the number as one of the recurring ones.

Booth plucked the phone out of her hands. "Booth." He listened for a moment, and then said, "Leave us the hell alone." He turned, flung the phone into the fireplace, where it shattered, and stalked out.

Brennan watched him go, aware of her pounding heart. Not in fear of him, never that, but in fear for him.

He'd been off all day. At times he'd seemed nearly himself, only...not. As if he was only acting the part of Seeley Booth. At other points, he'd been as distant as she'd ever known him to be. He'd been most himself with Christine - though even there, she'd caught that remoteness in his eyes when their daughter's attention had been focused elsewhere.

Sweets had warned her, weeks ago, that there would be damage, but she'd been so focused on just getting him out, that she'd not really listened.

Now she could think of nothing else.

B&B

She considered following him, but thought he might need some time alone to process the changes the day had brought. So... an hour. She'd give him an hour, and then she was going after him.

Forty-five minutes later, the door opened, and he came in, a frown on his face. "You should have locked the door after me." He did so, then turned to study the mess in the fireplace. "I owe you a phone."

She shook her head. "Talk to me, Booth. I understand it's not easy, but I don't know what you need."

He stared at the remains of the phone. "Neither do I." He finally sat down across from her, though there was nothing relaxed about the pose, and studied his hands dangling between his knees. "I want to kill them."

He'd said the same thing about Pelant more than once, but this felt different. It had always been so important to him, given his personal beliefs, to draw that line between killing only when ordered to by the government he trusted, and killing to save lives in immediate jeopardy. Never because he thought it was a good idea. He would never be Broadsky.

His hands were no longer clasped loosely, but instead were knotted together.

"I don't have the same reservations about their deaths that you do," she said carefully. "We can't begin to calculate how many lives have been damaged, destroyed, or ended, by those involved with the conspiracy. But I understand why it can't be a simple matter for you."

"I want to kill them," he repeated. Standing, he paced over to the window, moved the blinds just a fraction so he could see out.

He doesn't feel safe here, she thought. And why should he?

"Wanting to and doing so aren't the same thing."

"I know that, Bones." He turned again, but again looked down at his hands, watched them flex into fists. "I don't know if I could stop. I wouldn't want to stop."

Rage. She saw it now, realized it had been there all day, just below the surface. What did she know about dealing with that kind of anger? It wasn't that she wasn't capable of uncontrolled fury, but she handled it so differently from how he did.

"They have to be stopped. But I'm not FBI," he said. "And..."

"What?"

"I don't know if I want to be. I don't know if I can be," he said quietly.

Years earlier, she'd read an article theorizing that Western men took much of their identity from their vocations while women tended to self-identify according to their relationships: wife, mother, friend. The article had angered her in its sexism, but leaving aside the gender question, Booth _had_ always viewed himself in light of his career. Ranger, sniper, FBI agent. A patriot, always.

She went to him, slid her hands up to meet behind his neck. "Do you have to know tonight?" She nearly wept at the lost look on his face. "I believe it's fine to give yourself what Sweets would call 'breathing room'. This morning you were in jail. Now you're free after nearly four months of torture. We'll get to the bottom of the conspiracy, whether or not you're an agent." She emphasized the pronoun. "And then we'll see what happens next."

He relaxed, fractionally, and then his arms banded around her, pulled her tight against him. "I need you." His voice was raw.

Rather than telling him that that desperation went both ways, she showed him, taking his mouth with hers. With a groan, he allowed her the lead even as his hands began to move, pulling up the back of her loose shirt to reach skin.

He broke the kiss, his mouth streaking down her neck, where he paused to nibble on her collar bone. "God, Bones." They tumbled to the sofa, wide and soft, and every fear, every shadow, every grief, fell aside. Their lives were broken, he was broken, but together, they would find a way back.

B&B

She never quite slept, didn't know if he did, but after their loving, they laid there for a while, curled together in quiet. Finally she said, "We should go upstairs. Christine might come looking for us."

He shifted, looked down. "Definitely a bad idea," he muttered. Getting to his feet, he held out his hand, pulled her up. In silence, they gathered their clothing and went upstairs, where the quiet continued while they got ready for bed.

But once there, he curled around her again. It wouldn't last, she knew. They both tended to sprawl out into their own space once they were asleep. But the closeness felt good as sleep claimed her.

B&B

She was alone when awoke, though. Not just not curled next to him, but alone, and for a moment, panic that it had been a dream, that he was still locked up, clouded her mind. But no, her body was too relaxed, still too satiated from their earlier lovemaking for it to have been a dream. She pulled on her robe and went looking for him.

The door to Christine's room was open, and she slipped in to check on her. The little girl's covers tended to tangle around her as she moved, but they were smooth and even as she slept. Booth hadn't been awake long, then.

The stairs creaked, as old houses were wont to do, so she knew he'd hear her. There were no lights on, and as she reached bottom, he quietly said, "In here, Bones."

He was in the dark living room, standing in front of the window. The blinds were open, and his position before them was one of a sentinel, standing guard. She walked up and put her arms around him from behind, absorbing his warmth, his presence. "Do you really think they'll attack us?"

His hands came up to clasp hers for a moment, and then he turned, drew her toward him so he could wrap his arms around her. "I don't know."

"It wouldn't be rational. When your being framed has been exposed in such a public fashion, something else happening to you would only draw more attention to them."

"They've gone unchecked for a long time. Entitlement, rage over being caught...being rational might not be their priority."

She turned, to peer into the darkness with him. "Barron says you won't get your guns back. No matter who was at fault, a crime was committed and men died." Against her cheek, she felt the muscles of his chest tense, then relax. "But I have my two locked up upstairs, and another handgun down here. I bought it when we moved in here." Though three handguns wouldn't have made a bit of difference the night of the Delta Force attack, and they both knew it.

He sighed, and rubbed his chin against her hair. "I want to rethink our security here. And maybe it's time for a dog."

"That would please your daughter a great deal."

He smiled, and kissed her, and turned back to stare out into the darkness.

* * *

A/N: For those who are curious, I didn't set out to write a story where Hannah was part of the solution - not because I minded her all that much, but because she's in the past. But as I considered the setup they gave us in the finale, the question of why the media wouldn't be poking holes in the FBI's story kept bothering me and this was where my mind went in response. Last chapter will be up tomorrow. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Last part - A/N at the bottom.

* * *

Booth paced around Brennan's office. He wasn't nervous about the interview with Hannah. He wouldn't _be_ nervous about it. When every other journalist had fallen in line with the bureau's official story, she'd told the truth, freeing him from hell. He owed her the follow-up, and it was just that simple.

Only it didn't feel simple.

Beyond occasionally seeing her doing a report on TV, he'd not thought of her for several years, but he'd cared deeply for her once. Not the way he loved Brennan, but the feelings had been there, had been real - until they were eclipsed by anger. And now? The anger had been gone for a long time, obliterated by the reality of having Brennan, and then Christine, in his life.

"Are you nervous about seeing her?" Brennan was at her desk, watching him.

"What? No." Yes. He glanced over at her, saw she knew the answer to her question. "I don't know what she's going to ask. I don't know how much it's safe to tell her about what we know, how we know it." Which was all true, as far as it went.

"She knows some of it," Brennan pointed out. "My only priority was winning your freedom. If that blew open the investigation, so be it."

Booth managed a smile as he walked over, leaned down, and kissed her. "My fierce wife," he murmured.

He was starting to take the kiss deeper when movement at the door caught his attention. Not at all dismayed at being caught that way, he looked over at the woman standing in the door of the office, a slight smile on her face.

She was why he was free to kiss Brennan. Nothing else, certainly not their complicated past, mattered. "Hannah." He motioned her in, and they met her together.

He watched Brennan hug her, and then she turned to him. "Seeley." She stepped back, looked him up and down. "You look like hell."

"Could be worse." He could be dead. He leaned over, brushed her cheek with a kiss. "Thank you."

"You know me - always after the next big story." Her eyes hardened. "Journalism is a waste of time if it's not exposing something like this."

"Can't argue with that."

"I've got work to do in the lab," Brennan said. "But before I leave, I wanted to ask if you're aware of any pressure on journalists not to ask questions about Booth's arrest while he was in jail?"

"Yes." Her response was unequivocal. "Rumors, hearsay, mostly. I've been focused on matters in Asia, and while I always knew there was something wrong about the arrest, until you contacted me with the evidence, I had nothing concrete to go on." A smile played around her lips. "A 'former girlfriend insists FBI agent is innocent' report wouldn't have helped at all." Her eyes went hard again. "But since my article ran, I've heard from four other reporters all saying they'd refused to report on the story at all after being told they had to toe a certain line or face 'dire consequences'."

"Don't journalists accept consequences as a risk to doing the job?"

"Consequences of the kind even reporters have a hard time standing up to, Seeley: 'touch this and your kid in college never comes home again.' Detailed, specific threats against family."

Brennan's expression was troubled. "Are you in danger?"

Hannah shrugged. "No more so than when we were in Afghanistan," she said. "I don't have a kid in college. And now that it's out there, there's no point."

Brennan looked over at him, plainly recalling their conversation from the night before. A point might be irrelevant.

She left, and Booth and Hannah settled in the sitting area, he on the sofa, she in a chair at a right angle to him. She set a small recorder on the table.

It wasn't as bad as he'd expected. She asked him to start from the beginning, and that was more complicated than it appeared: the conspiracy exposed by the Ghost Killer cases; the Ghost Killer origins being Pelant. But Hannah listened to all of it, asking questions only for clarification.

"So that missile accidentally fired at Pakistan by mercenaries was actually Pelant? As was the traffic grid in DC failing? That was passed off as a technical bug."

"The bug just happened to be six foot tall," Booth noted dryly. "They weren't going to admit they'd been hacked."

"Of course not." She moved on, asking questions about how Pelant led to the Ghost Killer, and then Foster's death, the Congressional hearing debacle, and finally the attack at the house. "Someone in the military is involved as well, for Congressman Hadley to have known about your classified mission."

How much to say? "It's wide-spread, Hannah. The bureau, the Justice department, the military."

"You know who some of them are."

"Yeah. And we know the whole thing functions by coercion, blackmail. Find someone you need, find a weakness you can exploit, and boom."

"Not without risk, though," she pointed out. "Not everyone would sell out their country to protect themselves. You wouldn't."

Uncomfortable, he shifted. "I suspect they know who can be manipulated and who can't."

"Right." She looked down at her notes. "Tell me about jail."

No. He wasn't ready to talk about it, and if he ever was, it wouldn't be with a journalist. Even one who'd probably saved his life.

"Seeley, I can speculate. I know what happens to cops in jail, even when no one on the outside is actively wanting them to die."

"It's not relevant."

"It's the price you paid for integrity. For not giving up on justice. It matters."

"I was doing my job." But he blew out a breath, and told her some of it. The fights, the stabbing, the guards standing by and doing nothing. He told her as if he was reporting something that had happened to someone else. He would not allow the memories to come to life inside his head.

Silence fell. "Will you go back to being an agent?"

"That's not my decision. I was fired for having done my duty in a classified mission for the army even before I was framed for murdering FBI agents."

"Let me rephrase that. If you could go back, would you?"

He looked away, thought again of the conversation with Brennan from the night before. "I don't know. I did classified work for a long time. If that can be used against my family every time someone decides they don't like a case I'm working, then no. I've had other job offers. Private security, other agencies."

"Dr. Brennan told me that she would probably leave the Jeffersonian if you leave the bureau."

"She has more offers for private work than I do. Half the universities in the world would fall all over themselves to hire her."

"The cost to the Justice Department would be great."

"That's the way the chips fall, sometimes. My kid screamed this morning when I dropped her off at daycare, afraid I won't be back. It might be time to let someone else catch the killers."

She reached over, picked up the recorder and snapped it off. After a beat of silence, she looked at him. "I'm sorry, Seeley."

"Yeah, me, too."

"Daddy." At the forlorn voice, he looked over and saw Brennan and Christine. The little girl was clinging to her mother and rubbing her eyes. "Daddy."

"Ah, baby." He went to them, caught her as she flung herself at him and hid her face in his shoulder.

"Daycare called. She woke from a nap, hysterical," Brennan said, with a helpless look.

Why was it worse now, when he was home? Or did it only seem that way? "Shh, Christine. It's okay." He turned to Hannah. "I'm sorry."

She'd gathered her belongings and came toward them now, a compassionate look on her face. "Don't be. We were about finished." She looked from him to Brennan and back again, her gaze taking in the little girl who was now peeking out at her. "You two are a good fit. I always thought you would be, but it's different - and better - than I expected. Don't let this fu-" She stopped, looked at Christine, then continued, "-screw with you."

"Thanks, Hannah, for everything."

"Don't thank me for doing my job - isn't that what you'd say? Take care, all of you."

"You, too. Be careful," Brennan said.

"Oh, I will. Believe me."

B&B

Booth had thought he'd feel lost the following morning, the first day without a clear idea of what he should do. Brennan, of course, had other plans. "I assumed we would drop Christine off together and then you would come with me to the lab. Cam is spending as much time as she can afford studying the data Angela is decrypting, but you'll be much more likely to recognize names and patterns having to do with the bureau."

He wasn't sure it was that simple. If he spent too much time at the lab, someone might notice - and he wasn't a cop. But it was probably okay for a day or two.

Of course, four hours of staring at names had made him want to beat his head into the nearest wall, partially because that kind of police work had never been his strong suit, and partially because he was seeing too many names he recognized.

Leaving a message for Brennan, he stopped by the daycare to check on Christine, and then escaped. And realized that it felt good to be out on his own - though he was going to have to do something about a car. Her Prius just wasn't him.

An hour later, he sat at the bar of Paradise Lost. Aldo turned to him, studying him, after serving a customer. "Wondered if I'd see you." He motioned with a glass, and Booth nodded. He wasn't on duty, so why the hell not? "I tried to get in to see you and they wouldn't let me. Apparently, the fact that you believe I'm still your priest isn't enough." He set the drink in front of him, and tossed the towel over his shoulder. "How are you?"

Booth shrugged. "I'm no longer in that hell hole." He tossed back the whiskey. "I want to kill them all. And not as a cop."

"You done with the bureau?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

"We're not talking about me."

"Christine screams every time I leave her." And every time, his heart shattered. "How much am I supposed to give, Aldo?"

"This is a God question, isn't it?" He motioned around the bar, then to his chest. "Not. A. Priest." At Booth's look, he sighed. "Has it occurred to you that maybe you're in the middle of all this because God knows you won't give up?"

"And four months in jail was my reward for that?"

"I keep telling you - God's a bastard. But think about this: you didn't die. You could have, at least twice, and didn't. And those people you once told me you'd trust with your life? They worked around the clock to get you out, and your wife probably got less sleep than you did. Maybe that's not God. Maybe you just got lucky. You decide - you're the one it still matters to."

He poured him a refill, but Booth just stared at it, the rage a living thing inside him. "What, so I can't die until I clean up the FBI?"

"Didn't say that. But you're not dead yet, and as I'm not a fool, I wouldn't take bets against you or that team of yours."

Brooding, he swirled the whiskey around. "I want to kill them."

"Of course you do. But you won't."

How could he be so sure? "So I find a way to end it. Then what?"

Aldo shrugged. "Might be time to do something else. You'll know when it's time."

B&B

Two days later, Hannah's report appeared. It wasn't what he'd expected. First, it wasn't a single article, but was rather a multi-part report that would run in succession over four days. Second, while each part began with additional back story on the conspiracy, the bulk of each one was their past cases.

She noted that Booth, cleared of all charges, was no longer working for the FBI due to Congressman Hadley's betrayal, and explored the consequences of that - not for him, but for the American people. She'd actually called it a betrayal, which, while it was, dumbfounded him, given how the press usually felt about anything with the word 'classified' attached to it. But if members of the government felt free to expose secrets of other departments for political or personal reasons, it was the public who would suffer.

What would it mean if Booth didn't return to his work for the FBI? She asked that question, and then answered it by looking at the cases he and his team had solved, after first establishing that they _were_ a team: that his partner of nearly ten years, Brennan, wouldn't continue the work if he didn't, and most likely, neither would the others - all of whom had other career options.

The cases she'd highlighted were a mix of ones that had received press coverage at the time and the ones that hadn't made the news at all but at had nevertheless mattered a great deal to the people involved.

On the first day, she discussed the early Ghost Killer cases, which led back to Pelant, before turning to the exoneration of Marvin Beckett and the rescue of Megan Shaw, the young girl they'd saved one Halloween. It ended with a quote from the Christmas bombing victim's mother: "It wasn't just that they got Holden justice. He wasn't a job for them. If he had been, they wouldn't have given up their Christmas mornings to come to his funeral. It was just the two of us, you see. My boy was shy, and I'd not had time for friends of my own after my husband died, and then when Holden was grown, I'd gotten out of the habit of friends. It was just going to be me and the priest there, burying him on Christmas. And they all came. Because he mattered to them."

The second day, Hannah began with the McNamaras, before turning to the military cover-up of friendly-fire victim Charlie Kent, the murder of June Harris, the soccer mom with the double life, and the Amalia Rose, the slave ship full of victims that they'd identified and Angela had memorialized. She ended that part with a more recent case, still being discussed on social media: the justice they'd found for Sari Nazeri. He was grateful Hannah was vague about some of the details on that one, whether it was because she didn't know, or because she understood the risk to them all if she drew attention to their CIA contact.

The third day explored the death of Foster before looking back at the Warren Lynch case and the death of Senator Paula Davis. Hannah then shifted to the story of Colin Gibson, the teen missing for two years, and Ivy Gillespie, including quotes from both of them about the difference knowing the truth had made to their lives.

The final part of the report reflected on Booth's experience in jail before turning to the Gravedigger and Broadsky, where she noted that Booth, a man who'd been tried and judged in social media for his sniper activities when the truth wasn't known, had refused to kill the man who'd murdered a friend when presented with the opportunity to do so. She ended with the story of the infant boy they'd found in a tree, documenting that they'd not only solved his mother's murder, but had also found him a home - and had stayed active in his life.

Neither his refusal to shoot Broadsky nor what they'd done for Andy was common knowledge. But Hannah had obviously hunted down the Grants, who'd been more than willing not only to discuss what Booth and Brennan had done for their adopted son, but also what Brennan had done for the entire town, by rebuilding a single bridge. "We were never just a case to them; our town wasn't. Andy wasn't. And despite the murders, they left us with hope."

Booth was glad that the report wasn't just about him. In addition to plenty of comments about Brennan, she'd profiled the rest of the team as well, discussing each of them in turn - Angela's art, Cam's connection to the slave ship; exactly why Hodgins was no longer a rich man...all of them were there, worked into the stories, including a paragraph on Vincent.

Well, hell. He dropped the paper - he was alone in the house at the moment - on the table in front of him. Some of the cases Hannah had dug up, he'd not thought about in years. The government might not appreciate his service, but others did, and he'd lost sight of that. Whoever was behind the conspiracy could try however they wanted to destroy him, to destroy his reputation. But the message was clear that the people whose lives they'd touched would never buy it

He still didn't know if he wanted anything further to do with public service, even if the opportunity presented itself. But, 'they left us with hope' might not be a bad career epitaph.

B&B

Booth stepped back and eyed the shelves he'd just hung in the study, a large room in the back of the house. There were desks for both of them, as well as a child-sized one for Christine, plus wall space for books. And more books. And archaeological doodads. And sports memorabilia. And books - because he was married to Temperance Brennan.

He'd liked the house immediately, but the more he worked on it, the more it grew on him. It suited them. Still a lot to do, and he needed to think about that bathroom Wendell had suggested, but for now, it was comfortable. Not yet the home he'd sacrificed, but they were together, and that was what mattered.

Next up on the list, however, was the security system being installed later that afternoon. Motion activated cameras on every window and every door, as well as in strategically picked trees. Wireless ones, which, after Pelant, he didn't like nor trust, but Angela had told him she would help him secure them. And, since he didn't trust the wireless ones, they'd be backed up with redundant wired cameras where possible.

He still wanted a dog, too, but was having trouble deciding on breed and age. A puppy that would grow up with Christine wouldn't be big enough to help protect her right now.

As he had most days in the ten days since his release, he'd spent the morning at the lab, working through the decrypted files, before coming home to work on the house and try to figure out what to do next with his life. The last part of Hannah's article had run two days earlier, and, based on what the team was telling him, the case, his frame-up, and Hannah's story was dominating the social media networks at the moment.

Apparently, there was a petition out there on some site with seven million signatures (was that a lot?) calling for his reinstatement with the bureau, but Hodgins hadn't had to tell him that not everything being said the comments floating around was positive. There were plenty of people who would never believe the men who'd died hadn't been FBI agents.

He didn't give a flying fuck. What he did care about was that Stark had resigned the day before from the FBI. Booth didn't have any evidence yet, but the man's name had popped up in the files enough to convince him that he'd been part of the conspiracy. Probably not its head, as Booth thought they were looking for someone older. But involved.

So far, though, his former boss was painting himself as merely the fall guy for Booth's having been framed, publicly acknowledging that he should have confirmed the identity of the men prior to the arrest, blah, blah, blah. He wasn't wrong on that point, but privately, Booth thought the exit was part of something larger, a restructuring by whoever was in charge of the conspiracy.

In the midst of the usual noises of the house, something else caught his attention, and he went still. A car pulling up out front, when he wasn't expecting anyone to stop by. Picking up the new Sig Sauer handgun he'd bought, he moved quietly through the house - well, as quietly as possible through a hundred year old farmhouse. Yeah, the floors were on his list.

Through the glass in the door, he could see someone on the porch, and he debated whether or not to answer. But even as the figure raised his hand to knock, Booth recognized his uniform of an Army officer. Friend or foe? He opened the door, making sure the other man would see the weapon.

He recognized him immediately, though it had been years since he'd seen him last. And back then, he'd been a Lieutenant Colonel, not a, um, four star general. "Ah, Colonel, uh, General Davis." He nodded toward the rank. "Congratulations, sir." He'd respected him as a Colonel. He'd reserve judgment now.

"Thanks, Booth. May I come in?"

There was a driver in the car - not unusual, given the rank, but it made him twitchy. Still, he stepped back, motioned him inside. "We're still settling in."

"I'm aware."

It was also clear that he was aware of the weapon, and that he was unarmed. Booth tucked the gun into his waistband. If Davis chose to believe he was safer that way, he could do so. "What's this about, General?"

Davis didn't mince words. He never had. "Everyone - and I do mean everyone - at the DoD and the Joint Chiefs is furious over what Hadley did to you in that Congressional hearing," he said bluntly. "It's been a top issue for us, including during your incarceration - which was always suspect, but we weren't in a position to do anything about. But with that stunt of his Hadley put every classified mission at risk: past, present, and future, therefore putting the U.S. at risk. A number of our best special ops people have indicated their desire to separate ASAP, and who can blame them?"

He grimaced. "Some want Hadley charged with treason. I think you can make a case for that, actually, though whether it's wise or not is a different matter. But we're going in a different direction, at least for now. That mission will be de-classified, with the details presented in such a way as to make clear who it was you shot, why, how many lives you saved in the process - and how many lives Hadley put at risk with his actions. He may not be up on charges, but his career is over."

How was he supposed to respond? That he didn't really give a rat's ass? He'd been a soldier too long for that. "That's unnecessary on my behalf, General."

"Figured you'd say that, but it's not for you, though I hope to hell there's a benefit here somewhere for you. You did the right thing, Booth, and that mission should have stayed known only to a few. But he put it out there, and the public, Hadley, whoever's steering him - they need to understand. We can't have the security of classified missions used as pawns in someone else's game. You know that."

"Yes, sir."

He sighed. "We've spent four months debating whether by de-classifying it, we'd be doing what Hadley wanted, before finally deciding the benefits might outweigh the risks, either way."

"I'd say that's the last thing he expected."

"That's what we're hoping." He was silent for a moment. "Your years of service to this country shouldn't have been rewarded in such a manner. That pisses me off. I read that article by that reporter. Saw that you might not go back to the bureau, even if you could. Don't blame you a bit. But there's a place for you at the DOD, military or civilian, your choice, if you want it."

It was unexpected, though it probably shouldn't have been. And it mattered to him, more than it should have. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet, General," he said carefully. "But thank you."

"No need. Call me if you want to discuss the options." He started to turn back toward the door, and then paused, looked back. "Booth, you were in the army a long time. You know the signs of PTSD as well as I do." He glanced down at the gun. "Find someone to talk to. Don't let those fuckers do this to you."

With that, he was gone. As Booth watched the car pull away, it occurred to him that Davis was the first person outside his circle that he'd felt completely confident of since the hearing.

B&B

Booth swung the ax at the base of the small, dead - he hoped - tree. "I. Do. Not. Have. PTSD."

He glared at Sweets, who lifted his hands in surrender. "Okay."

Another swing, another glare. "Okay? Just okay? That's it?"

"You're holding an ax," Sweets pointed out.

"Damned straight I am." Another blow and the tree came apart. He dropped the ax, mopped at the sweat on his forehead with his shirt as he looked over at Sweets. "I know the symptoms."

"So why am I here?"

"To tell me I don't have it," Booth muttered. "And don't roll your eyes. I can pick the sharp object back up."

"We haven't talked enough since you were released for me to form an opinion one way or the other," Sweets said. "With anyone else, the reluctance to talk would be a concern, but since you're you, it just means I don't have much to go on. If anyone was entitled to PTSD, though, it would be you," he added more quietly. "And if you do, you've got plenty of support."

"I don't need this shit."

"Why take the tree out?"

The abrupt change in topic had Booth looking at him suspiciously for a moment, but then he turned and stabbed a finger back toward the house. "When I'm in the guestroom, the trees are angled in a such a way that I can see if a car's parked in front of the house - except for this one. I like the trees and the long drive, but I want to be able to see the street."

"Uh huh. How are you sleeping?"

"Has Bones talked to you? ...of course she has. It's not that bad. I go to bed, I sleep. I wake up. I check the yard. I go back to bed. Nothing wrong with any of that."

"Are you having nightmares?"

"Sweets, damn it."

"Do you want my opinion, or not?"

"I dream sometimes."

"Have you told Dr. Brennan?"

"About the dreams? Why the hell would I do that?"

"About any of it?"

Booth went over to study the tree. Now he could see that yes, it had been dead, apparently of a lightning strike. Good. He hated the idea of taking out a tree needlessly. But it had to go. "There's nothing to tell, Sweets. Jail wasn't all that interesting."

"You know better than that."

Booth picked up the ax and handed it to him before he grabbed one end of the biggest chunk of tree and started back to the house, dragging it behind him. "Let's go have a beer. I'll chop this up for firewood later."

They were settled on the porch before Sweets spoke again. "Look, PTSD, like any mental illness, varies from person to person. Based on what you're telling me, you don't have some of the symptoms. But you're not telling me everything, and there are things that concern me."

"Such as?"

"You're hyper-vigilant. Hodgins says the security system you've installed and which Angela helped you with was top of the line, generally reserved for banks and heads of state. You've chopped down a tree that impedes your view of the road - despite the security system - and you did it with a gun tucked in your waistband."

"Nothing wrong with wanting Bones and Christine to be safe."

"Nothing at all wrong with it. You asked, and I'm telling you - this is excessive for this neighborhood. Does that mean there's a problem? Not necessarily, not given what happened to your old house. But you're having trouble sleeping, having dreams. Again, not outside the norm, but if that continues, and the dreams are of things that happened to you in jail, it's a concern - especially if you can't bring yourself to discuss it with anyone."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

Sweets just looked at him.

"So what do you recommend, Dr. Sweets?"

Sweets ignored the sarcasm. "Talk to Dr. Brennan. Tell her about the dreams."

"Not you?"

"Of course you can tell me. But you'll do better telling her."

Booth scowled. "I don't want to upset her."

"Trust me, she's already worried."

"Anything else?"

Sweets hesitated. "This would not be my recommendation for everyone in your situation. But find something to do. Figure out what comes next, career-wise."

"How the hell will that help, if I'm looney-tunes?"

"You're not nuts. You're exhibiting signs of extreme stress due to having spent nearly four months in constant fear for your life. You, normally a very powerful, in-control man, were powerless for that entire time, at the mercy of people who wanted you dead. Getting your life back will give you a sense of control." He motioned to the security camera in the corner of the porch. "That's what this is about. Proving you're in control. But actually _being_ in control, doing what you know you do best, might be better."

"That's it? That's your therapy?"

Unfazed by the sarcasm, Sweets said, "It's not therapy. In my professional opinion, based on years of personal history with you, you have some symptoms of PTSD. If left unaddressed, they'll likely get worse, but at the moment, I believe that opening up to Dr. Brennan, and finding a way to feel like you're in control again, will help a great deal. Medication to help you sleep might also be in order. If you do all of that, and things don't improve, we'll re-evaluate."

"Well, hell." He hated when Sweets made sense.

B&B

_It wasn't the pain. He could live with pain. It was the sheer hopelessness of being held by two men, arms twisted behind his back, while three others took turns beating on him. And beyond them a circle of prisoners stood watching, cheering, and making sure the guards couldn't intervene. Even if they wanted to._

_He was going to die. If not now, soon. The assaults were getting worse. Each time the guards looked the other way, the inmates got bolder._

_The only reason he wasn't dead now was because they were enjoying playing with him._

_Big guy shoved to the front. "Time to eat all those pretty teeth of yours." He drew back a meaty fist and prepared to plow it into Booth's face._

Booth jerked, and was across the room, leaning against the wall of their bedroom with no memory of moving.

God. He was covered in sweat, his heart pounding as hard as it had that day, one of the worst beatings he'd endured. Two days later, he'd been stabbed.

"Booth." Brennan's voice was soft, and brought him the rest of the way out of the dream. She reached out and turned on the lamp and he grimaced at the light. At the exposure. Damn it. Had he had to actually leap out of the bed in response to the dream? Like a child would?

He rubbed his face with his hands. "I'm going to go do a perimeter check, Bones. I'll be back."

"Shouldn't we at least look at the cameras first? That way you'll be able to determine their accuracy, if what you see here matches what you find outside."

There wasn't a hint of censure in her tone at having been awakened by a mad man escaping from her bed. Just a reasonable suggestion. They'd spent - or rather he, the unemployed one - had spent an insane amount of money on that security system. And she'd never said a word. How stupid would she think him if he wouldn't even use it?

"Sure."

She already had the laptop open. An older one she was no longer using, it wasn't particularly powerful, but it was more than adequate for the camera software, and they'd been keeping it in whatever room they were in, 'just to check.'

By the time he settled next to her, stiff and uncomfortable, she'd brought up the cameras. Silently, they clicked through the images. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, and he rubbed a hand down his face again.

"I'm sorry, Bones."

"For what?" She closed the laptop, set it on the shelf of the table next to the bed. When he didn't answer, she said, "Do you still want to do a perimeter check?"

More than his next breath, mostly to shake off the final vestiges of the dream, but partly to get away from her. From her patience. Her love. "No, I'm good."

"Tell me what you were dreaming."

No. Hell, no.

But he remembered what Sweets had said. What was worse, to take her back there with him, or to risk her having to live with a nut job who came out of bed screaming in the middle of the night?

He swallowed, and staring down at his fists, told her, barely aware of her hands closing over his fists, rubbing, soothing, until he relaxed, let her in, let her link her fingers with his.

"I was going to die," he said flatly. "That last time, right before I was stabbed, I saw that guard watching, and he didn't care. Not one of them cared. 'Save the taxpayers the cost of a trial,' they kept saying. I was never going to see you again, or Christine, or Parker." Tears were slipping out and on a harsh breath, he turned a little, rested his head against her shoulder.

Brennan slipped one of her hands away from his, reached around him. "The betrayal was the worst of it, wasn't it?" Her voice was quiet.

"God, Bones. All of them...they should have had my back." He broke.

B&B

Brennan held him through the storm, wept with him, though she doubted he was aware of that.

Finally, he slept. They'd rolled to the middle of the bed at some point, and she stayed in the same position that he'd found comfort in, one hand yet clutched in his, the other stroking his hair. His sleep seemed one of peace now, but still, she watched over him. "I will always, always have your back," she said quietly.

B&B

She hadn't slept, content to watch over him. Self-indulgent, perhaps, because she had a full day ahead of her, but he was home, and with her, and even as troubled as she was by what he was going through...he was home. And he was going to stay that way.

When the sky outside began to lighten, though, she finally shifted, eased away from him, and went downstairs to make coffee. Christine would probably sleep another hour or so, but that would give her time to continue her research into PTSD. She'd known some about it, of course, but it only made sense for her to learn more about it.

She was at the breakfast bar, taking her first sips of coffee in front of the laptop when he came downstairs. "Good morning."

He helped himself to a cup of coffee before turning back to her. "Morning."

"How are you?"

He took a sip before meeting her eyes. "Better."

But he didn't look better. Not as much as she'd hoped, at least.

He sighed, sat the cup down, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Bones...I might be a bad bet. PTSD sometimes isn't even diagnosed for months, and often gets worse."

"What did Sweets say?"

"I have some symptoms, but not all of them. And it's too early to tell."

She didn't know about other people. But she knew him. She knew them. She slipped off the stool, and went over to wrap her arms around him. "Then we'll just wait and see." She rested her cheek against him. "Although our vows didn't include them, the traditional marriage ceremony includes the words, 'for better or for worse' does it not? I'll place my bet on you, on us, every time."

Some of the tension eased out of him, and he brought his arms up and around her, and held on.

B&B

Booth sat back from the laptop on Brennan's desk and rubbed his eyes. He hated this. Hated looking for names he knew, hated finding them worse. Plus? Combing through pages of data was his least favorite kind of cop work even on a good day.

There were not-good days, though, and there were bad ones. Sitting in an office in the Jeffersonian, poring through decrypted files and knowing he could take a break and see Brennan, or Christine over in daycare, anytime he wanted - that was a hell of a lot better than jail.

But really, he was the best one to go over the files, and he knew it. Sweets helped when he could, but someone at the bureau was determined to keep the younger man buried in busy work - his words - so his time was at a premium. Cam had done her best, but she'd had to cross-index most of the names, researching who they were, whereas Booth actually knew a lot of them. And that angered and grieved him in turn. Some of the names were people who'd apparently been victimized, blackmailed into doing something they didn't want to do, while others had pretty clearly been willing participants.

Motion at the door caught his eye, and he tensed, hand on the gun next to him before his brain could catch up to the reality that he was at the lab and that it was probably only Brennan or one of the squints.

Only it wasn't any of them, and he slowly stood, though he left the weapon where it was. Accessible.

"Cullen." He'd not seen his former boss in how long? Five years, at least.

"Thought you'd be here."

"They're never going to let you retire, are they?" The other man was in a suit, lessening the already minimal chances that this was some weird casual visit.

"Doesn't look that way." He looked around and Booth tried to recall if he'd ever been here before, back when he and Brennan first started working together. "This mess you've uncovered already took Stark, and is probably going to topple the director as well. They want to make me interim while they try to find someone they can convince the public is clean." He snorted. "Not that they have proof I am."

"They don't know how far it goes, or doesn't go."

Cullen gave him a sharp look. "You do?"

Booth hesitated. Trust him, or not? They'd worked together for a long time, and he'd watched the man break when his young daughter died. Once, he would have trusted him with his life. But now he would be, if he told him the truth about the files. More, he'd be trusting him with lives more precious than his own: Brennan and Christine.

But there hadn't been a whisper about Cullen in any of the files.

"There's a source," he said slowly. "Unknown to anyone in the bureau. The data is being compiled now."

Cullen snorted. "You and your team. Doesn't surprise me."

"Anything they find, Angela will give Caroline Julian. I'm a civilian. Not involved."

"Uh-huh. And you've got a bridge to sell me, too. But about that...they want you as Deputy Director of the DC office. After all, they don't have to convince the public you're clean. Your reporter friend did that for them," he ended dryly.

Deputy director of anywhere would mean another Congressional hearing. "Hell, no."

"Told them you'd say that. What if it's unofficial? Would you consider coming back to your former position and helping me clean up this mess?"

Another job he wasn't sure he wanted. But he couldn't spend his life like this, either. "I don't know."

"I wouldn't blame you for running me out of here, Booth. But it's a chance to make it right. To make it what it's supposed to be. Especially with those files Angela's working on that you don't know anything about."

The conversations with Aldo and Sweets came to mind and Booth sighed. "Let me talk it over with Bones, sir, and I'll get back to you."

"Fair enough."

B&B

Booth pushed the offer to the back of his mind and focused on the files. Thinking about Cullen had him approaching them in a different way: who else, like the former deputy director, wasn't there? Who might be able to be trusted?

They didn't discuss Cullen until that evening. When they arrived home, Brennan went to fix supper, while Booth did a check of the yard. Maybe the day would come when it wasn't the first thing he thought of, but his caution wasn't hurting anything. He was coming to trust the cameras, though he'd probably never do so completely, not after Pelant.

But he had learned more in the Rangers than how to aim a weapon, and physical markers were set up around the house that would tell him if anyone had been around.

No one had been, none of the wires were tripped, and he relaxed a little more.

It was a good evening at home, the kind they'd not had in nearly five months. Christine hadn't cried when he left her at day care that day, and after supper, they played with the Legos Max had gotten her.

It was only after she was in bed, peacefully sleeping, that Booth pulled Brennan down next to him on the sofa, and told her about Cullen.

"I guessed as much. I saw him, and he was in a suit."

Amused that their minds had run along the same lines in respect to the significance of Cullen's clothes, Booth smiled as he sipped his beer.

"Are you going to do it?"

The smile faded, and he said slowly, "I think so. It won't be the same, Bones. It will never be the same. I'll never view working there the way I used to, and I'll never look at any of the people in the same way."

"You won't trust them."

"No. But there are good people there, people who deserve good leadership and a chance to do good things. A chance to make things better, to fix what's broken. And you and me? We do good things together, too."

"You don't think the conspiracy can be completely eradicated."

"I don't see how. But we'll try, and we'll make it harder for them. And easier for the good guys."

They were silent for a while, curled up together. "Things will probably still be rough at times," he said. "But I have to believe it will be worth it. And I've got you."

"You've got me," she agreed. "And the team."

"Yeah. Crazy squints." He tilted her face up, and kissed her. "Bones? I'll always have your back, too."

* * *

A/N: For any who are curious, my goal here wasn't to tell the story of how they bring the conspiracy down, but rather to tell one version of how Booth is freed from jail, what the consequences are of his experiences there, and how he gets to the point of being willing to consider working for the FBI again. That's what I see the different pieces of this chapter doing. I very much enjoyed working through those pieces, and hope you all did, too. Three weeks from tomorrow, our show returns!


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